ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2014

THE FORGIVING TREE

Ferguson dominates the news here as much as there, and everywhere. A cable channel in San Pedro Sula showed events live, including President Obama’s speech, reported by their correspondent in Ferguson itself. It’s even worse, in Spanish. My own “plan”--hardly original with me--is forgiveness. It’s the only thing that actually changes reality. I suppose faith makes it more plausible, but I don’t even think believing in God is relevant when you’re bridging the gap that artist Bob Staake, married to a best friend of my sister Barb, portrayed on the cover of THE NEW YORKER. 

Honduras made its own international news, disgracing itself with the murder of Maria Jose Alvarado, our contestant for the Miss World competition in London this week. A beautiful young woman from the humblest of origins, she celebrated at a party with her sister Sofia, whose boyfriend killed them both when he saw his “girl” dancing with another man. His defense is as ugly as his crime: “She’s my lover, not my wife; I’ve got a wife, and a son; that’s what we do here.” Turns out he’s deeply connected with drug trafficking, and it’s not his first “hit.” Apparently his higher-ups reassured him, so now he’s denying everything, even though police say he’s the one who showed them where the bodies were buried, in a shallow grave by the river. “Miss Honduras Mundo” had told us that her theme for London would be the good things about Honduras, its natural beauty, its lovely people, its welcoming heart. Forgive? No one said it was easy!

So now it’s up to me, I guess, to be the bearer of good news. 

Maybe a low bridge under water and blocked by a huge trunk of tree doesn’t sound like good news, but willing and timely cooperation to open the way is worth celebrating. By the time my bus to Yoro got to the bridge, one strong man was already hacking away at the thing with an ax. The rest of us started piling the biggest rocks we could carry, to reinforce the access, washed away by the flood. I assumed it was hopeless, but the folks here have more experience with the impossible, and it worked!

My soccer team, Honduras-Progreso (HNP), made it to the playoffs in their first year in the national League. I went to to Progreso for their final game of the regular season, a rowdy contest with red and yellow cards flying, but the crowd was most thrilled by Jorge ‘Nangui’ Cardona’s first goal of the season. It’s not just my own bias, since I’ve known his family since 1977; he’s everyone’s favorite! Absolutely fearless, he’s in the middle of every play, and big scorers like Angel Tejeda, who leads the league with 12 goals, credit Nangui with their success. Nangui never “flops”; knock him down, he’s up before you’ve run away. But when a sharp elbow to the face cut him below his right eye, I thought he was done. Nope--they put a patch on it and he finished the game, a 3-3 tie, after which he got 5 stitches! 

The doctor told Nangui couldn’t play for at least a week. ‘Squeeze me? He was there in their first playoff game, in Tocoa, 4 days later, untouchable. But HNP lost that “away” game in heavy rain, 1-0. And even though they won the “home” game in Progreso the following Saturday, coming from behind again and again with a flurry of goals, 4-3, it wasn’t enough, in the arcane measurements of soccer, to qualify for the quarter-finals. Well, there’s always next...month. The new season will be starting before you know it, with two championships per calendar year. 

It’s time for a number of end-of-the-year activities. For example, graduations. Milena, daughter of Maricela and Juan Blas, graduated from her computer course, an innovative combination of technical skills and group activities. The students do Windows...and sharing! It’s a program I would love Chemo to do next year. 

Elvis and Dora’s daughter Dorita graduated from 9th grade, with a brand-new version of the plaque that commemorates the event, now featuring the student’s name! Also, their son Elvis, Jr., (“Tito”) graduated with a degree in Arts & Letters from the bachillerato in Victoria. His picture looks like he’s coming from Harvard! 

But I was the photographer of record for the little kindergarten class of La Laguna, a tiny mountain village a three-hour hike away. Five boys and girls and their teacher, they couldn’t afford a “professional.” They all arrived with their mom or dad, nervously fingering some cash. “What will you charge?” Oh, please! “Nada!” The “set” included the group photo and an individual photo, each student with the teacher. 

There were baptisms in Las Vegas and First Communion in Paraiso, both with Padre Chepito, who is so gracious with the children. I only wish we could make a bigger deal of it, you know, a “reception following” kind of thing. Just no money for such luxuries.

A soccer tournament in Las Vegas brought teams from all around the area. When Nahum scored the first goal in the home team’s tense game with Pueblo Nuevo, one drunk fan rushed onto the field with his machete, seeking to even the score. The Pueblo Nuevo team quickly surrounded him before he could do any violence, and led him off the field. A forfeit was discussed, but eventually the game was played to its conclusion, 1-0. Even rivals can agree on something. 

November 2, “All Souls Day,” is just a sweet tradition to remember our dear departed. Folks arrive at our cemetery, some as early as dawn, to decorate the graves with flowers, plants, pine needles, maybe a new cross or marker. Right at the entrance is a bump of ground for our “angelitos,” persons who died in infancy.  

The newest grave is Dona Elba Barahona, 83 years old. And you know what? I’ve known her almost half her life! Back in the day, her husband Vicente owned the only car in town, and he’d make a run to Victoria every morning at 6:00 a.m. for whoever needed to go. A little crowd would gather at his house, watching and praying the engine would turn over when he’d crank it up. Of course, if it had rained during the night, the river would rise and you couldn’t get through--maybe tomorrow. Vicente died a couple years ago, but Elba held on. What a dear! A whole family of teachers and professionals, not to mention all the grandkids, including one, Ariel Dubon, who is a male model for fancy clothing stores in Tegucigalpa. And the great-grandkids, how lucky they were to know and love her. 

For a few days there, it looked as if Manuel would be the next to go. He was in worse condition than ever, all but abandoned, it seems, by his family, who appropriated for themselves the “bonus” the government gave to the handicapped a couple months ago, leaving him unfed, unkempt, stinking in his own urine-soaked pants. We run a routine whenever he comes: soup, soda, and rolls. I send off some available kid to the nearest store, while I start heating the water, and give Manuel his pill to curtail the seizures. 

When we found him curled up in the street at 5:00 one morning as rain started to fall, we hustled him to the porch of the as-yet-unoccupied house next door. He revived a little with the soup-soda-rolls, and I was on the verge right then and there of going to Victoria to tell the police to come and make his family take responsibility. But then, a miracle--maybe, keep your fingers crossed--his father Renan, most often the drunkest of the drunk, showed up, sat with him for a while, and eventually led him home. 

A couple days later I saw Manuel clean and dressed and alert, “shopping” at a little store for juice and cookies. “Wait for your change,” said Mirna, the owner.

A few months ago, my dear friend Paige asked me to join a group she had formed to write daily scripture commentaries to assist preachers and pastors who might be looking for ideas. It’s called “Daily Bread.” The catch: no more than 145 words. If you read these CASAs, you know that is practically impossible for me! But I’m doing it and I’m loving it. I also post them on FACEBOOK. Attached is a sample. (Sorry, it’s kinda “religious”!)

Wishing you all the best for the holidays, may there be peace in our hearts and in our world. Your love has certainly made our lives here more beautiful.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAC McCAULIFFE NOVEMBER 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2014

BIG MAC LAND

He came, he saw, he ‘corazon’ed. Mac McAuliffe came to visit Honduras and he gave us his heart. Of course, he got lots of hearts in return! “Macario” to his friends, and everyone became a friend, he instantly made Honduras a second home, and fittingly enough, since he also lives in Las Vegas! (OK, Las Vegas, Nevada, but close enough.) He kept apologizing, but he spoke Spanish plenty well enough to convey his interest, enthusiasm, and concern, and if he halted, folks readily filled in the blanks. After all, there are other languages besides strictly “vocabulario,” and believe me I got a whole new appreciation myself of so many things here that I guess I had taken for granted. To see Mac’s wonder, his delight, his urgency, his practicality! filled me with hope as if I were just new myself.

This would be a tour of highlights, each experience a memory for a lifetime. It began in Tegucigalpa, where our planes landed within minutes of each other at Toncontin airport on October 15. In a couple days, he met Lily, Angelica, Markitos and Yessica--and Elio and Mema. Elio and Mema took us to lunch to celebrate my birthday, but the party atmosphere was restrained by their anxiety about their son Elio Manuel, who had been “detained” by Immigration in Atlanta where he went to visit his children, three kids among those thousands of “refugees” from the violence and dangers of Honduras. Authorities assumed Elio Manuel intended to stay, not just visit. Elio and Mema had heard nothing since his arrest 15 days before. Mema could barely eat for her trembling hands. 

That night, Elio and Mema called; Elio Manuel had finally had a “hearing” before a judge; apparently sympathetic to his cause, she suggested he apply for asylum! So they asked me if I would write a letter of support. I had only pen and paper, but I set to work, concentrating my mind to try to tell the story of the robberies, extortions, threats, and terrors that the family had endured. Welcome to Honduras, Mac! Actually, Mac made the crucial suggestion of including a copy of my passport, to “authenticate” the document. 

In Las Vegas, one family after another adopted Mac as their own. First, of course, Elvis and Dora, where we ate lunch, but also Santos and Alba, where we ate dinner, and celebrated little Albita’s third birthday. Natalia and her household couldn’t get enough of Macario, not to mention Wil and Brenda, Maricela and Juan Blas, and even Cristina Castro made sure we had a special lunch at her house. Sometimes things moved the other way, when Mac was the initiator. A financial planner by profession, Mac proposed making “investments” from himself and his friends in the “Caja Rural,” a little savings and loan in town, where Juan Blas and Wil and Brenda are on the “board.” This would add a whole new dimension to its ability to help campesinos to get their plantings and reapings to prosper. 

And Mac had another idea, a legacy of his former life as composer and musician of liturgical music. I mentioned in last month’s newsletter from St. Louis that we met in the College Church choir 35 years ago when Paige was the director. So Mac started an excited series of texts back and forth with her, suggesting a “benefit” concert for Honduras sometime soon in St. Louis. Watch this space for your pre-orders! 

My nose is always so close to the grindstone that I don’t see the big picture, just myself teetering on the edge, so I found such possibilities breathtaking!                                    

His journal already overflowing, we moved on to Morazan, now with Chemo along, for a couple days with Fermin and Maria’s family. First thing we did there was buy donuts from their daughter Esly (whose photo graces the hall by the Parkway North library). About to graduate with a degree in “comercio,” she and her classmates are getting hands-on practice in business production. Speaking of production, Mac was bowled over by Maria’s endless hospitality: “They feed us every 15 minutes here!” Just as amazing was Fermin’s fifth-grade class, who were staging “debates” about public-safety laws. The kids were so poised, so well-informed, so prepared, so attentive that you couldn’t believe they were 10-year-olds! “This isn’t a class, this is a seminar!” 

Last stop, El Progreso, where we wondered if recent flooding from heavy rains would impede our progress. But all was well as we gathered for lunch with Santa’s family; we brought a cake to celebrate the 70th birthday of Tina, Santa’s mom. Jorge, “Nangui,” Santa’s son, star soccer player for Honduras-Progreso, the new team taking the League by storm, joined us with his wife Marta and their bouncing baby twins Camila and Ivan. Suddenly, Nangui spotted one, no, two! iguanas high up in the avocado tree. Joel scrambled up the branches to shake them out, and when the first one dropped to the ground, it took off, never to be seen again--or so I thought. But no, Nangui outran it and trapped it with a towel! He outran the second one, too, a classic bright green dinosaur. “You’re gonna be too tired for the game tonight!” I said. “No, sir, I’m just warming up!” 

And you should have seen him in the game! If he didn’t already have the nickname Nangui I think “Iguana” would have stuck. A furious affair, there was a goal apiece in the first 5 minutes, a red-card apiece in the next 15, even Nangui got a yellow card, but that’s because he’s in virtually every play! He hasn’t scored a goal yet this season, but he’s his teammates’ ready “assist.” Mac and I thought the score was 4-2 Progreso as the game ended, or we would have been a lot more nervous. (It was actually 3-2.) It was their first victory in 5 games, still undefeated at home. Afterwards, we all gathered at Marta’s street-corner baleadas stand to celebrate. Eventually, Nangui joined us, where he would stay till 11:00 to help clean up, and go home to the babies.

Next day, October 25, Chemo and I accompanied Macario to the San Pedro Sula airport, where he left with promises of return, maybe with his wife, a professional musician herself featured in numerous Las Vegas venues. 

Thank you for taking this virtual tour! It was the perfect follow-up to my month in St. Louis, the blessing of being with you there, the blessing of carrying you in my heart back here. ‘Corazon a corazon,’ heart to heart.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--ST. LOUIS 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--ST. LOUIS 2014

THE AGONY AND THE AGAPE

http://www.wimp.com/helpedchild/

I saw my nephew Nick, who just got out of 2 years in jail. The “system” is full of red tape,  so he had a number of other, minor charges to clear up, including a 50-dollar fine for “visible undergarment” or “sagging” in Charlack, a little speed-trap in north county. Nick’s defense: “It was a hot day, I took off my shirt.” But it’s nice to know our government is protecting us from crack! On the other hand, when he got stranded at the Clayton courthouse, where he had to convince them that they did really want to see him (“Try Doolick”), a policewoman in a squad car comes up. “What are you doing?” “I’m just looking for a way to get home,” a half-way house downtown. “Well, I can only transport prisoners.” She thought for a moment. “Here’s what we’ll do.” She put him in handcuffs and took him to a bus stop on Skinker, and “released” him. Nick: “I wonder what anybody thought who saw that!”

So that brings me to Ferguson. Be careful what you wish for. I thought Ferguson would be “all over” by the time I arrived in St. Louis. And now it is--all over the world! This bedeviled community is struggling so hard to find its center, and it just keeps getting pulled out of balance. A former student who has friends in Ferguson, took me for a visit. No sooner did we arrive than sirens called us to the perpetual protest at the police station, where somebody had struck a protester with his car, and the police arrested the protester--that is, until multiple smartphone videos convinced them to arrest the driver. After more than two months, at least one friend is near the breaking point. “I don’t know if I can do it anymore, I just can’t.” It’s the struggle to keep the peace, keep the calm, keep the hope, and keep the vigilance. One organizer’s face so sad, his tee-shirt pleading: “Pause, Prepare, Plan, Participate Peacefully.” The police formed a line, no guns out, no riot gear, not even hats, and the chief arrived. Talking and shouting continued till a voice announced: “This is no longer a peaceful protest, you are now subject to arrest.” Nothing had changed or “escalated” that I could see, but we dispersed anyway, and had lunch at Cathy’s Kitchen, beginning to get the notice it deserves as a unique eating experience. I had the best fried shrimp I’ve ever had, and the best apple pie. 

Then I asked to visit the site of Michael Brown’s death, where a little shrine of flowers, candles, and mementoes in the middle of Canfield Drive marks the spot. Canfield is a gently curving lane through a large green space, with sturdy, rustic apartments on either side. You cannot imagine that anything “controversial” would happen there. I closed my eyes and prayed, for Michael Brown and his family, for Officer Darren Wilson and his family, for everyone and anyone I could and could not name. 

Some days later, when rumors flew that a police officer had been shot, FACEBOOK lit up till a former student of mine, whose policeman husband was pulling 13-hour shifts in                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Ferguson, finally reassured us: “I’ve heard it wasn’t Chris, thank God.” The wounds are not just the blood. There’s racist rants white and black, tears and fears through town and country--sometimes on the same FACEBOOK page. Ferguson, as much as Honduras, where we get 20 Fergusons a day, prompted the title for my new photobook that I show around: “Have a Heart!”

The gentlest protest came at a St. Louis Symphony performance of Brahms’ “Requiem,” when a choir from Ferguson rose from their seats in the audience as the conductor took the stage, to sing an improvised “requiem for Mike Brown.” It was brief, a couple or three minutes, but so beautifully sung that patrons and even orchestra members applauded. Others treated the “interruption” more rudely, but the singers departed peacefully and the scheduled performance proceeded. It was also Yom Kippur, adding another note of solemnity, and no police were called. I heard it all live on the public radio broadcast of the symphony, and when photos and videos appeared, I recognized longtime friends among the singers.

The St. Louis I thought I knew goes like this: When I went to the 13-inning Cardinals game September 18 with my sisters Barb and Nancy and Nancy’s son Dan, we scalped MetroLink tickets from a couple black guys, we scalped game tickets from a couple white guys, and I bought my bratwurst from a black woman who pointed at me and said to my sister, “He’s handsome!” Fans all, everyone cheered “Big City” as he scored the winning run, and we all crammed the last train of the night in celebration. 

But “things fall apart, the center cannot hold,” as the poet said, and now the whole city has broken along fault lines--”sides”--that we can no longer paper over. Maybe compassion is the key, compassion that dissolves the differences, and the indifference. Com-passion, what the Scriptures call “agape,” that unifying love that knows no bounds. 

At last, I opened my eyes on Canfield Drive, and tears flowed. Ferguson should be on everyone’s “bucket list,” to know its conflicts and its passion. And Cathy’s Kitchen.

As for me, I was bathed in love while I was in St. Louis! I spoke with classes at three schools, where students and teachers responded beyond all expectations. I saw old friends, new friends, babies and bobos (grandparents), and I guess I ate my weight about 6 times over. 

My sister Barb’s house, which burned up last December--just in time for Christmas--is almost ready for re-habitation, and it is beautiful. Somehow Barb has maintained her equilibrium and her sense of humor through this ordeal, which at last is coming to an end. She said, in her patented style: “What I love about the house right now, is--there’s NOTHING in it!” Love ya, Barb! 

Was I busy? Here’s one day. Rick Blaha invited me to the recurring breakfast of retirees of the Parkway North history department at Jenny’s Cafe (141 and Olive). Meanwhile, North grad Amy Thames Latta asked if we could meet for coffee; she’d be coming from a meeting in U. City, heading home to St. Charles, Jenny’s Cafe right on the way. And Mac McAuliffe, in town only for a few days, who I hadn’t seen since our choir days together at the College Church 35 years ago, said we should have lunch to chat about Honduras and then go out to visit the choir’s director, Paige Byrne Shortal, who now makes her home in Union, MO, straight out Highway 44, Jenny’s Cafe right on the way. So Teresa Jorgen, the absolutely best host on the planet, gave me a ride to Jenny’s Cafe: 8:30 breakfast with the retirees, 10:30 coffee with Amy, 12:30 lunch with Mac, and then off to Union. By that time, I had made friends with everyone in Jenny’s Cafe, including Jenny! That’s about how things went for the whole month.

A couple of emergencies foreshortened the time I might have spent with other friends--and family!--that I longed to see. I’ll try to plan better next time....

Meanwhile, Mac McAuliffe has actually joined me here in Honduras! He lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, but he wanted to see my Las Vegas. He flew all night, arriving on Delta from Atlanta; I came via Houston, and we met up at the airport in Tegucigalpa. The adventure continues!

I came to St. Louis to see your beautiful faces. The attached photos (I hope it doesn’t crash your computer!) are my tribute to your lovingkindness.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2014

HAPPINESS IS THE TRUTH

See you in St. Louis, Sep. 17 to Oct. 15. I’ll be at Teresa Jorgen’s house (314-966-5782); my cell phone: 314-210-5303.

The horrors of Ferguson left me so helpless I had to acknowledge some truth in flame thrower Ann Coulter’s recent column excoriating “Christian narcissists” who fly off to the far reaches of the world “to serve man” when the need is so great right at home in the United States. I cried daily for Ferguson; the most I could do was climb the hill to the church every day to pray the Rosary and beg God’s mercy. So I’m in Honduras and would “challenge” you to pour buckets of cold cash on my “important” work, while my own home town is burning in shame, and broken hearts and bigotry push the very limits of FACEBOOK. I hope I can find a spot to pray and maybe lend a hand when I’m home.

Last month I had to “come clean” about Honduras, and I wonder if you are mad at me for not telling you the whole truth about how scary Honduras really is. It’s a reality I tried to ameliorate over the years with my hopeful stories of those precious and dear persons whose struggles against all odds have inspired me, folks that I wanted to be the face of Honduras for you, too. Well, the bitter truth is so overwhelming, I can hardly make a dent in it. Until Ferguson, the horror stories of Honduras were all over the news. I saw a reference in one article that these children of Central America, these “refugees” as they are being called, show the signs of PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, like soldiers barely surviving combat in war. I would never want to diminish what our veterans have suffered by diluting the term, yet that clicked for me. Could a whole generation be “disordered”? God help me, I see it even in myself! Sometimes I’m so confused, so directionless, so anxious, why doesn’t this work? why doesn’t this work out? so crippled by fear, so stressed, I guess I have to say, that I can’t move. Chemo, of course, is the touchstone of my life and my worry. I can’t help imagining that he will die in this mess here--he’s already had at least two life-threatening episodes with illness, as well as the threats that circulate even here in Las Vegas--or that I will die suddenly, a second father torn from him. More rosaries!

Let me say all this here, so I don’t have to say it in St. Louis. This is verging on self-pity, if indeed I haven’t crossed that line. I’m traveling light! I’m not taking this baggage to St. Louis! I am coming “home” to see your beautiful faces. Like Henry Fonda, lost in the woods, guided home by Katherine Hepburn in “On Golden Pond.”

So, back to our true purpose, hat tip to Pharrell Williams!

Helping Hands for Honduras--the folks that saved Chemo and so many other children in  need of open-heart surgery--had another fundraiser in Tegucigalpa, this time a special performance of a wild and crazy comedy about Honduras in the World Cup. It was pure magic, beginning with the location. This troupe of performers write their own productions, and have become pretty famous around here, but their theater is ensconced in a dark corner of the fourth level of an abandoned mall that looks like the one in “Children of Men.” But once inside, it’s all light and joy. The play was sheer formula, the men want to watch the World Cup, the wives want to watch soap operas, the loopy neighbor brings them all together, but it was so lively and endearing, it seemed like one long improv. I snapped pictures like crazy, and even Chemo took some photos on his cell phone. 

Dia de Lempira, celebrating the native chief who resisted the Spanish invasion of Honduras 500 years ago, had the kids dressed up in their little costumes, a tribute you might say to an undying hope that Lempira’s dream of a beautiful land could still come true.

Maestro en Casa, the education program Chemo is studying, had their annual event, too, celebrating Human Rights. Chemo was all set to perform a dance with the students in his class, but the other guys were too embarrassed, so it fell apart. Lots of other students from all over were not so shy, so there were plenty of performances.

Speaking of performers, Jorge “Nanqui” Cardona is becoming a national sensation! He’s the soccer player I told you about, eldest son of my supposed “girlfriend” Santa (in her dreams!) in Progreso. I first met in 1977, when Santa was about 10 years old. Nangui’s team, “Honduras Progreso,” is a rebirth of a team that had a short life in the 1960s; and they are getting noticed. I went to their game a couple weeks ago, which they won in a tense struggle 1-0 against an established team that must have asked themselves, “Who ARE these guys??” Nangui was outstanding in the game (“Player of the Week” in La Prensa), but his biggest “goal” came the day before, when his wife Marta gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. Nangui was with her the whole time at the clinic, and went right back there after the game. Meanwhile, the rest of the family celebrated with baleadas (stuffed flour tortillas) at Marta’s streetcorner stand, now staffed by her best friend Alicia. Follow the team on Twitter--?

We celebrated Fermin’s birthday, number 48 and he’s feeling it! But he was so loved and adored at least that day--including his daughter Arlin giving him his “baby bottle”--that it might last all year. 

Juan Carlos, the young man shot in the shoulder when a drunk was aiming at his boss, came back from Lajas to Las Vegas to visit family. The bullet hole has healed, no bigger than a skeeter bite, but the bullet itself is still lodged against his shoulder blade. But, you see, he’s on this “list” because there’s no hate in his heart, he’s just raising his boy, now in kindergarten, and loving his wife. 

And Padre Chepito has arrived to be our new pastor. There’s a Chamber of Commerce campaign to promote Honduran products, “HECHO EN CASA,” ‘homemade.’ Well, Chepito is just that, having grown up in our own mountains. In fact, our beloved Tia Clara told me he would stay at her house when he had errands or projects to do in Las Vegas. I am hoping Chemo will soon be making his First Communion with Chepito!

First I heard of Coca-Cola’s “Share a Coke with----” promotion was when an Internet hoax said that the “Michael” bottles were loaded with dirt by some disgruntled employee. When I found a “Jesus” Coke down here, I had to buy it. I got a “Juan” for Chemo (real name, Juan Anselmo), a “Maria” for Fermin’s wife, even an “Erick” for Ery, my neighbor with Down Syndrome. I have yet to find a “Miguel”....

But, thanks as always for sharing! See you soon!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2014 'BORDER CRISIS' edition

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2014: THE BORDER CRISIS

DOUBLE CROSS

Remember, I’ll be in St. Louis September 17 to October 15. Will I see you?

Well, they didn’t make it. Last month I sweat blood telling the anguished tale of Eduard, Freddy, and Rafael’s attempt to get to the United States. They only got as far as Veracruz, a port city snug in the lower curve of the map of Mexico. ‘Veracruz’ means ‘the true cross.’ More like a double cross, perhaps, when the police noticed them lingering in the bus station too long to be “locals.” So when they finally boarded, the police got on, too. They fingered Rafael and Freddy right away, then they just waited till the coyote finally stood up and nudged Eduard: “We better go, too.” With the little group no longer intact, any further progress was impossible. 

They spent five days in jail, apparently treated well enough, and never fully fingerprinted or registered, so another try will not be a “second offense,” I guess. The Mexican government runs buses all the way back, through Guatemala, to the Honduran border, a trip of at least fourteen hours. From there it’s a short jump to San Pedro Sula, where Fermin was waiting for them. I wish I could have eyewitnessed the re-union, but I think we can all picture it pretty well. I went to Morazan a few days later, to see them; Rafael and Freddy are ready for another go, and soon. Arlin, Freddy’s wife, tearfully explained Freddy’s “logic”: he can more quickly pay off the $2000 he lost in the aborted attempt if he gets work in the States right away. And the $4000 after a second failure? 

So let’s talk about the border. People are asking me for my thoughts and perspective about the current crisis, involving tens of thousands of children “flooding” into the United States. I usually don’t talk “politics” in the CASA, because you can get that on the news. I tell the stories you will never hear about folks that will never be in the news. But this is so big, I will try to offer some insight.

First of all, the United States has treated Central America like its back yard for a couple hundred years. “Banana republics” are very convenient when you don’t want any competition. How come you like a Japanese car but there’s never been a Honduran auto industry? The USA has hollowed out Honduras’ economy for years with cheap exports like bananas, wood, cement (!), not to mention the ‘maquilas,’ or sweatshops. 

Second, when Hurricane Mitch in 1998 chased thousands of, yes, refugees to the States, many fell into the webs of gangs when they couldn’t find work; they brought those “talents” back to Honduras when they were deported and have been a growing plague ever since. 

But, third, nothing prospered the gangs like the drug cartels, who used their ready-made organization to ply their trade. When air routes for drug transfers were successfully interdicted, land routes multiplied and Honduras became the fulcrum for South America’s supply and North America’s demand, corrupting every level of Honduran society, the law, the courts, the government, the police, the military, everything. Thus, Honduras became the bloodiest country on the planet. It’s trendy to say “meat is murder,” in defense of vegetarianism; a little less popular, but much truer, would be “marijuana is murder.” In fact, the Honduran President Juan Orlando Hernandez reminded President Obama that the “root of the immigration problem” is the gringo drug habit. (Of course, JOH, as he’s known here, is thoroughly corrupt himself!) 

[Update: the mayor of Yoro City was just arrested for drug trafficking, including 137 murders, dozens of rapes, land thefts, etc.; they’re expropriating at least 9 mansions, luxury automobiles, a carnival of exotic animals, including 250 fighting roosters valued at $2000 apiece. I’ll take your bets on his successful prosecution....]

So the word went out, some months ago, that children, or women with small children, would be “welcome” at the border. Was this some “code” from Obama to his sleeper cells, or was it opportunistic coyotes promising the moon, or sheer desperation? In last month’s CASA, I compared it to victims fleeing a burning building, and I see that metaphor everywhere now. 

And speaking of metaphors, how about “The Beast”! The freight trains that immigrants “board” for a ride through hell. One of my neighbors fell into the rails and was ground up a few years ago. In recent months, at least 6 trains have jumped the poorly maintained tracks, gobbling up dozens more souls as the whole train falls on top of them. Mexico recently budgeted to improve the tracks, so they can SPEED UP the trains, so people won’t be able to catch up to them and jump on to them. Yeah, that’ll work. And the gangs that “monitor” the trains; they’ll throw you off if you don’t satisfy their demands for money or sex or you name it immediately. 

I am as mystified as anyone, but I think it's a combination of a long build-up from this side of anxiety and despair and some hint of hope from the other side that NOW is the time. And so it has exploded into this mess. I think this article (sent by a dear friend in St. Louis) says it best: what "changed" was, the "immigrants" became "refugees." And I must note that Chemo’s brother Marcos and his girlfriend live in the “Nueva Suyapa” featured in the article. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 

 A Refugee Crisis, Not an Immigration Crisis

I have to say, the IQ of the average commentator seems to be cut in half when they approach this issue, saying the most hateful things about us here in Honduras, where people have allowed me to share their life in prayer and sharing. Of course, there are criminals and time-servers and hijackers sneaking in with the crowds; I’m not talking about them. But when you’re a poor, wayfaring stranger crossing Mexico, it can seem a million miles, and we forget that Honduras really is very close to “America,” just around the corner, you might say. So the differences in wealth and poverty seem inexcusable. 

Friends like you all, who have a heart for the poor, ask, What can we do? Well, with your help, I could just try to make things a teensy more “equal” here, if you want to save some people whose names and faces, from these CASA’s, you actually know.  

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2014

THE BIG PICTURE

I know I’m a pest, and I know there’s no one who can wipe away my credit-card debts, but you have been so wonderful to carry us through the “emergencies”! And these continue....

I think you know the big story of June, namely, Chemo’s sudden and scary sickness. We were in Tegucigalpa to visit Chemo’s brother Marcos. Chemo got his teeth cleaned and a few hours later was running a 103º fever. It abated a bit with some pills, but returned during the night, so at 6:00 in the morning we went to a private clinic where a wonderful young Doctor Celeste and an even kinder nurse Hilda went to work on him. They gave him a big shot in the butt, an intravenous in the arm, drew blood, and a cool, moist towel for his head. The blood results suggested Dengue Fever, which would have to be monitored for at least 5 more days, another blood draw every day. 

They dismissed the idea that the teeth-cleaning had anything to do with it, but some of you have confirmed the pre-medication advised for heart patients before any dental procedure. The dentist here had said it was unnecessary for only a cleaning, and Chemo has not had a problem before, but I do think we’ll play it safer in the future. 

Anyway, Chemo’s platelet numbers finally started trending upward, and we could go home, a week later than we had planned, “dead broke,” as they say. But thanks to you, my finances got a transfusion, too! 

Catching up on the emergency at the end of last month’s letter, let me note that Dania finally brought little Elio home after a week in the Yoro hospital following her cesarean section. I didn’t even want to think about her stretching up the high steps into the bus, the dirt roads that shake anything loose even if it’s “sewn up,” and the last 40 minutes from Victoria to Las Vegas in a moto-taxi that, in Dania’s condition, had to feel like a cement mixer made out of tinfoil. But she got a big welcome at the house, and lots of loving care. Like Chemo’s numbers, she soon trended upward till I could catch a happy smile on her pain-free face.

Not all emergencies are medical! Helen celebrated her 15th birthday, the special one for a young lady, the QUINCEAÑERA. So I told her mom Maricela, “Let’s do it up right!” She started figuring, just the family, cousins, etc. “That’s 90 kids right there.” OK, we’re gonna need a bigger cake! In fact, we ordered two of Carlota’s specialties, one of them topped with a quinceañera figurine. Chemo brought his computer, its iTunes loaded with songs, and he provided the music for the feast. There were balloons, games, even little gifts that some kids brought. At Mass on Sunday, Padre Jaime gave Helen a special blessing. You know, Helen has cerebral palsy, so she’ll never have a “normal” life; but neither will any of us if we fail to love her. 

Santa, my “girlfriend” in El Progreso, celebrates her birthday the same day as Helen, so we headed there the next day. Now that her kids are having kids, she’s sort of calmed down on the “when are we getting married?” pursuits, so we can just laugh and enjoy the time together, me blushing at her numerous double entendres. 

And I’m not the only “celebrity” anymore. Santa’s eldest, Jorge (better known by his nickname Nangui, for his flat nose), was featured in a story in “Diez,” a daily sports paper. They showed me the story--Nangui, 28, the star of the El Progreso soccer club, working hard during the day at construction sites to make a good home for his pregnant wife Marta expecting their first baby. The full-page story had pictures and everything, Nangui on the pitch and on the job. I tried like heck to find the story online, but it seems “Diez” considers sports too ephemeral to keep an archive of its items. 

For the second year in a row, Felix Cruz (the big guy that rescued my iPad from his nephew who had stolen it) arranged a special soccer game between kids from Las Vegas, here, and others now living in San Pedro Sula. I saw another chance to visit Maria and Fermin in Morazan on the way back, so off we went, a dozen or so, Saturday, June 28, in Marcelo’s van; he does a lot of little charters like this. 

When we passed the main square in San Pedro and saw it packed with revelers, loud music and drink abundant, it finally dawned on me why Felix chose this date. You see, San Pedro Sula is named for St. Peter, whose feast is celebrated June 29, a Sunday this year. At the soccer park, the interest in the game was actually second to the excitement for the “carnaval” that night, and some were already passing around beers. To me it seemed the perfect storm: hordes of people, bottomless booze, thieves abounding. I knew I’d lose Chemo in the crowd in the first fifteen minutes. So I finally persuaded him to leave the game a little early to catch a bus to Morazan, where we arrived about 7:00 p.m. Chemo slept the whole way, so I guess he knew he couldn’t party till dawn anyway. He had played about 15 minutes in the game on a hot day and got so tired he kept signaling to the ref for a substitution. So he was totally exhausted, as perhaps anyone who’s recently had a life-threatening illness would be!

In Morazan, Fermin and Maria greeted us with the somber news that Eduard, their 20-year-old son, would be heading for the United States on Monday, a venture postponed a month ago. Fermin just kept welling up with tears. “I’m not so worried that he’s going; I’m worried he’ll never come back.” Come back alive, that is. Maria was somehow more hopeful, that strength of a mother that even a husband has to depend on. Eduard would  be going with his brother-in-law Freddy, the husband of his sister Arlin, and another cousin, Rafael. Now when I heard that name, something clicked. In the Book of Tobit in the Bible, Tobit sends his son Tobias on a long journey to a foreign land, accompanied by a guardian angel in disguise, Raphael. So I told the guys that; okay, I guess it’s pure sentiment, but it gives me, and maybe them, more hope for their safe passage. 

Sunday the 29th was an emotional day. First of all, it’s Fermin’s father’s 73rd birthday; his name is Pedro, too, you see. While he was celebrating with friends and neighbors from the church where he pastors, next door at Arlin and Freddy’s house, a group was gathering who would be sending their loved ones up to the States. Fermin felt bad that he was not with his father, but, as he said, “Miguel, I just can’t do it today.” When Freddy asked Fermin to say a prayer, we all embraced shoulder-to-shoulder while Fermin (I swear he was touched by an angel!) offered this full and winding prayer that seemed to mark every step the immigrants were about to take; he went on, in gentle swirls of praise, thanksgiving, and petition, begging God’s mercy and protection and care, for those going and those staying behind, till everyone was crying, including Fermin, all of us helplessly humbled before God’s loving will. Once all the folks departed, including Pedro’s guests, just the family gathered together at Pedro’s house, to ponder what the future would bring. For the moment, it meant a meal; Maria went out and picked up some Chinese. (Food, you understand.)

On Monday, I tagged along to San Pedro, where the “illegal aliens” would meet up with their “coyote” at the huge bus terminal just outside the city. This man is trustworthy and true, linked with cohorts all along the way who provide lodging, food, and extra clothes (they carry only a tiny fanny pack), as well as experienced guidance in circumventing the “federales.” But I have to say the last photo I took, of Freddy desperately hugging his wife Arlin and child Fredito, is just too heart-wrenching for public viewing. And typical of such moments, Fermin suddenly remembered, “Oh my God! I forgot to give Freddy his license; it’s his only ID!” So off he runs, catching them just before they board the bus. 

First stop, Guatemala, where a former neighbor of Fermin was waiting for them, and by golly about 8:30 last night, a text message announced their safe arrival! Now for four days or more in Mexico, the dark side of the moon, no communication at all till they’re inside “America.” 

You can hardly blame people for running out of a burning building, especially when the United States stokes the flames with its filthy drug habits that kill 21 Hondurans a day in the traffickers’ crossfire, and the scrofulous economy that results  from such corruption. I’m only here to say it doesn’t have to be like this. 

But today, July 1, Maria returned to work, after 2 months’ rest from an operation; her little fourth graders squealed with delight to see her again. Some people have kids, and some special people treat other people’s kids just like their own. 

Like you treat me!

Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2014

A MONTH OF SUNDAYS

I just made reservations for St. Louis, September 17 to October 15, 2014. See you!!

Time to thank more of you, even more gratefully if that’s possible, for donations that you will find laced throughout this report. If anyone else “has my back,” I can do still more good things.

The rains came early this year, April 30 to be exact, after several days of some weak rumbles in the sky, a mammoth storm burst forth with the pent-up fury of a six-month wait. A “hurricane” we call it. The next day, May 1, the same thing at the same time, 3:30 p.m., just a little less scary. The next day, the weather had reached its balance, a nice, long, soaking rain, calling the campesinos to start their planting. Virtually overnight, everything greened up, and we could see our mountain again La Peña, shrouded in the dry season by a heavy haze of dust and smoke.

Chemo and I went “into the fields,” too, you might say. We went to Morazan, to see how we could help Maria in her recovery from the surgery I mentioned at the tail end of last month’s CASA. I just wanted to spend a couple days, just enough to help with expenses and some yard work or whatever. I didn’t want us to be a bother, you know. Well, Maria and Fermin’s kids were already on the job, Eduard, 20, now teaching sixth graders, Esly, 17, about to graduate 9th grade, and Arlin, 26, principal at a little school just outside of Morazan, living apart with her own family (husband and baby boy)--they all pitched in. I did clean up some dead banana branches and such and other trash, and I gave Maria money to pay the “trabajadora” Cristina for a month, and with the grandkids, Gladis and Michelle, we followed Maria’s shopping list at the Supermercado on the main street, where I paid the tab.

But we kept extending our visit, when Fermin invited us to a song festival at his grade school, and another festival at his high school, plus yet another festival for Mother’s Day. I had to sort of pry it out of him, but in fact he had organized all three of the events. So we couldn’t say no!

Let me tell you what I told Fermin and Maria. Last year, Fermin was very sick, almost to the point of death, and I knew nothing about it. Somehow I had dropped communication, and I felt terrible when I eventually found out what had been going on. So I said, “I’m not going to make the same mistake twice!” Thus, Project Maria. We’d be helping as long as it took.

The festivals were a lot of fun, and, in Fermin’s hands, practically professional. It was raining pretty hard for the first one, so they set up a tent to try to cover the performers, and stationed students at each corner to keep it from flying away in the wind. Finally, one kid, Jose Luis, an 8th grader, realized the rain had stopped, so he sauntered out among the crowd, just as casual as Sinatra, singing his ballad and timing it perfectly to end right back at the tent. Did I mention this was a competition? Over Fermin’s objections, I should add, because while Jose Luis was the obvious winner, he didn’t even place; the principal’s earnest but, shall we say, talent-challenged daughter got the prize.

The next festival featured Fermin’s own adaptation of “Don Quijote,” and the major success here was the ease with which he had rehearsed the teens to lose their self-consciousness and enjoy the nonsense, as Sancho Panza wooed a wind-aided (some balloons in her bosom) Dulcinea for his master the Don.

The Mother’s Day program had Fermin’s daughter Esly as the M.C. Already an experienced host from her time at the local radio station, she was better than the little band the principal had hired, which kept interrupting at just the wrong moments.

One afternoon, while Maria was resting, Miguel (my namesake!) talked his cousin Gladis, both 11, into trying the moto-cross run laid out for the upcoming fair--on their bikes! Gladis, who is a little clumsy anyway--slightly pigeon-toed, awkward--went tumbling off her bike end-over-end at full speed downhill, scraping and gouging knees, shoulders, elbows, her back, her front, and chin like she’d spent 10 minutes in a cement mixer. Somehow she escaped with her teeth and head intact, no broken bones. (Not like 13-year-old Jairo here in Las Vegas who landed smack on his face off his bike; he needed 16 stitches INSIDE HIS MOUTH!) Just cleaning Gladis up sent screams into the air, while Miguel observed nervously from a distance. I could not even think about taking a photo, not even for “historical” purposes. Fermin remained calm when he got home, probably for Maria’s sake: “Son, you have to take care of Gladis, not get her hurt.”

Back in Las Vegas, Chemo passed a test for Maestro en Casa, I helped a stricken gentleman Isaias get to the doctor when was sure he was having a heart attack, we celebrated a feast of the Virgin Mary under her Islamic title Our Lady of Fatima, I had another vomiting fit (you know, I thought the mayonnaise tasted funny I was making the tuna salad with, but, in my 66 years that is my accumulated knowledge: if the mayo tastes funny, eat it anyway!). Tragic was the miscarriage of my neighbors Angela and Manuel’s baby in the seventh month, the son “Manuelito” they had longed for to join their 3 daughters. Elvis made a tiny casket for the tiny grave that a friend had dug, and I, at a loss for anything helpful to say or do, slipped them some cash to help pay for the rolls and coffee at the “funeral.”

Then Chemo and I headed back to Morazan.

Again intending just a “touch-up,” we got caught up this time in the annual feast and fair that was now underway, honoring the Virgin Mary under yet another title, Maria Nuestra Senora de los Desamparados (Our Lady of the Helpless), a celebration inherited from Spain. Maybe the timing was not coincidental, because our Maria made her first outing since the operation, to the Super Market, my wallet at the ready, the little girls (Gladis has improved remarkably already from her wounds) happily pushing the cart and tossing in the Honduran version of Hostess’ chocolate cupcakes and other goodies; and then we celebrated Maria’s recovery in general, piling everyone into Fermin’s pick-up for a trip to El Progreso and Pizza Hut.

Las Vegas’ own annual feast of the Holy Cross was celebrated May 1-5. We dedicated a 20-foot steel cross, complete with lights, that Mauricio (“Picho” to his friends) had made, a work of art, you might say, our version of the Gateway Arch. (Or is it too HOLLYWOOD?) And there’s a new shrine to Mary, a grotto carved into the side of the hill. Title: Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal, patron of the Legion of Mary, the most active group here for good works.

Everybody’s favorite non-religious activity for the fair is the “cintas,” or ribbons, riding a pony at full gallop and plucking a tiny ring off a wire, with a ball-point pen! The one with the most ribbons wins, though I can hardly imagine ever even getting one.

Now, please don’t laugh too hard at us Catholics that we seemingly can’t walk two steps without grabbing for Mary’s hand. She’s Jesus’ mother, so it all comes down to that. Her brave and peasant story is re-played here in the poor on a daily basis.

For example, Santos, 43, mother of 12, from Nueva Palmira (think: poverty, squared). I was hoping this CASA would be Sunday every day (and it still will have two happy endings!), until Santos’ first-born, Juan Carlos, 26, was shot in Lajas, a distant destination for people looking for work, coffee picking in the winter, farmwork in the spring. First word was, Juan Carlos is dead, then that changed to “inconsiente” on life-support, at the hospital in Comayagua, four hours from Lajas.

Santos’ blessed smile graces the cover with three of her children of my photobook “Recuerdos” from a couple years ago, but when I hurried to Nueva Palmira, a short hike from Las Vegas, her face was gutted with grief and fear.

Fortunately, Santos has a sister, Olga, in Comayagua who could check on Juan Carlos herself. Imagine my astonishment when I called her and she handed the phone to him! Turns out his boss had recently murdered his own wife for “fooling around,” and her family was out for revenge. Juan Carlos got caught in the crossfire, a single bullet lodging right below his left collarbone. So he was alive, but a full recovery would take months.

Santos, of course, was frantic to be by his side; she did not know the area, so another sister, Bernarda, familiar with it all, would accompany her. I gave them all the cash I had on hand, 3000 Lempiras (about $150); the last thing anyone needs is to run short in the “wild west” of Honduras!

Since he can’t work now, Juan Carlos and his wife and two kids won’t be able to stay in the “apartment” his boss provided for them on the farm (and the badly wounded boss might die anyway), so they’ll return to Nueva Palmira, where Juan Carlos has been sending money for a while now to build his a little house, mostly the work of his father Digno, even though he only has one hand. I saw it! It’s shaping up nicely, but how will they finish it now? They married at age 15, and I swore (and swore at them!) that it would never last, and yet there they were, responsibly planning their future--till a stray bullet threatens to take it all away. But he’s alive, and I’m counting that as a happy ending....

But now I had to scramble, for the “emergency” that I was actually saving the money for,  namely, the birth of Marcos and Dania’s baby, Chemo’s cousins, due May 27. When the baby did not come, and Dania’s hands and feet swelled alarmingly, this was a sign of trouble. At the tiny Maternity Ward in Victoria, they are unprepared for any “problem” pregnancy, so they sent Dania and her mother-in-law Natalia off to the Yoro Hospital, three hours away.

I thought the baby had died, and I was telling people so, till Marcos called me up in tears: “Miguel! What happened to my baby?” I fumbled around and Chemo and I ran over to the house about 10:00 at night; by then, Marcos had managed to talk to Dania. The baby was not “lost”; he just hadn’t been born yet. So Marcos and I went up to Yoro the next day on the earliest bus we could get. Well, I HAD to go, I had to get to an ATM, to throw the bucket down the well once more, see what I could dredge up. Soon after we got there, the doctor said we can’t wait any longer, has to be Caesarian. Ouch! Then the electricity went off, in the whole town. The only part of the hospital that has a back-up generator is the operating room, but who knew when they’d get to Dania? In this World, you’re always Third.

But I slipped off for no more than a half hour, to the ATM, and when I got back, Marcos greets me, “He’s here!” That fast? Yes! And we fell into each other’s arms, crying; someone says, “Oh my God, did your baby DIE?” “NO! We’re happy! these are tears of joy!”

But like Juan Carlos, Dania is in for a long recovery. Natalia was telling me how all her children were born right in the house, up in the mountains in those days; she’d cut the umbilical cord herself with a pair of sewing shears. But she made the perfect nurse for Dania, at her side 24/7 for four days, and Marcos, too. They’re naming the baby for his grandfather, Elio, Natalia’s husband. “Now we’ll have a big one and a little one,” she says. So that’s a happy ending, OK? Or maybe a happy beginning, because now the hard part starts: the rest of his life.

Another happy ending, you can see for yourself. I just talked to my sister Barb, whose house burned up a week before Christmas. She’s been slowly getting things back together, and when I told her the dates I’ll be in town (September 17-October 15), she bursts out, “Great! We’ll have the Open House right here!” Bring a snack, and some wallpaper.

The whole month of May is the Month of Mary, featuring the tradition of children bringing flowers in her honor every day up to the church. We sing a song so old, Mary may have sung it to Jesus; I’m sure the kids don’t understand some of the words, but let me try to translate one verse:

Jamás tu amor consienta Your love never will allow
Que en este triste mundo That in this sad old world
Fiero cual mar profundo The fierce waves to overwhelm us
Sufran algún revés. And we be lost.

You are my “bucket list”! Thank you for keeping me afloat!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2014

WALK THE WALK

Thank you with all my heart for help you gave me; any other kind souls who can make a donation, I promise to honor your trust.

After 6 weeks in hibernation, licking my financial wounds, Chemo and I ventured out on a new round of visits. I almost had to make the trip alone. Chemo was scared to go back to Morazan, the first stop on our itinerary. “Fermin is still mad at me,” recalling the scolding he got for staying out late with Eduard, Fermin’s son, and neighbor Hansel last time we were there. I had already talked to Fermin at least 3 times, and he had no problem with Chemo’s return, “as long as he respects our curfew.” The 5:00 a.m. bus was already blowing its horn, I was locking the front door behind me, when Chemo finally bounced out of bed (“All right, I’ll go!”), threw a few things together, and scrambled ahead of me to hold the bus as it was about to leave.

Of course, Chemo and Fermin immediately reconciled, and there would be no problem with late nights since Eduard was actually teaching classes at Fermin’s school, subbing for a teacher who just had a baby. Meanwhile, we learned that Maria, Fermin’s wife, would be needing a sub herself at the little school across the river where she teaches. She was scheduled for an operation in Yoro Monday, April 28. I took her to the supermarket to stock up on things, and I assured her we would return to help with her recuperation, at least paying for a ‘trabajadora’ to cook and clean and do the wash. It would be fun to try to cook for Maria instead of just sitting down to one of her magical meals that she seems to produce out of thin air. I guess! (The wonderful writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez just died, famed for his “magical realism”; Maria is the Garcia Marquez of menus!)

Hansel shared the “secret” that he’s going to the United States, along with his mother and two little sisters and a brother. They were leaving in a couple days and he figured they’d be in Orlando, Florida, where they have relatives waiting for them, by the end of the week. I thought about trying to describe the relative distances of Honduras and Orlando, but I just wished him well, shivering with the fear inside that I would never see him alive again. His 17-year-old cousin Jefry across the street, after two attempts, is already in Houston, happy as a lark and working in “construction,” so Hansel sees no reason for concern. We’ll stay in touch on FACEBOOK, you see (“Hansel Aquino Moti”). Hansel is the one who was supposed to study with Chemo when Chemo was going to attempt Maestro en Casa in Morazan. Now he’ll be in Disney World.

Fermin is staying in the fight right here. Along with some activist lawyers and other associates, he is leading the “opposition” to the government’s attempt to squelch the pensions of teacher retirees. They have fashioned a bill now before Congress, and the trick will be to unite at least three of the minority political parties to get it passed. Fermin was on TV two nights in a row while we were there, with interviews to explain the plan. No one does this better than Fermin! He knows exactly what to say in favor of the legislation to motivate his side and what NOT to say, lest you alienate the other side. It was a little weird, too, because both interviews were taped, so Fermin’s sitting right there with us eating supper while we’re watching him on TV. He didn’t even look up.

Since everybody leaves the house by 7:00 a.m., Chemo and I took an early bus to El Progreso, and lo and behold, just before it pulls out, Hansel and his family climb aboard. So I guess they meant it! They would be taking the bus to San Pedro Sula, and then, well, you know, on to “America.” By the time Chemo and I got off in Progreso, Chemo’s mom was dead asleep, her mouth wide open, her babes draped about her. We exchanged one last good-bye with Hansel and that was that.

We hadn’t visited Santa and the family in El Progreso since January, but the most recent birthday was her daughter Karla’s just a week before. So we got a cake, Santa fixed lunch, and then we had a pizza party that night. But the funnest (I hate that word!) part was watching the kids jump over an electric cord stretched between them; they jumped a couple dozen times till I finally got their grandmother Tina to try it. I thought, if she trips we’re going to the hospital, but she did it!

Another early morning and we were off to Tegucigalpa. I had promised Chemo a huge, glorious MegaBus type transportation, but I guess the Ulua bus company is cutting back, so it was a van. But still comfortable enough that I could finally start reading John Green’s “The Fault in Our Stars,” the book everyone was talking about when former student James Weske mentioned it on FACEBOOK, and he sent me copy! A digital copy, so I was reading it on the iPad former colleague Kathy Blundon gave me in St. Louis last time I was there. Amazing, on all counts--the iPad, Kathy, James, and the novel!

Actually, I was going to read the book for Lent, but some kid stole the iPad right out of my house! Not just any kid, mind you, Doenis, the one who so humbly joined me at Alcoholics Anonymous a while ago. I guess it takes more than one meeting to get on the right path. I was sort of afraid to pursue the matter, but Chemo immediately went to Doenis’ uncle Felix, a guy I’ve known since 1982 when he was 7 years old; he was the first kid to figure out how to put a jigsaw puzzle together (first, you turn all the pieces face up). Felix is now a big guy, huge, a Hulk, so he jumped on his motorcycle and headed up to Panal in the mountains where Doenis had taken refuge. Like Arnold famously said, “I’ll be back.” I would have loved to have seen their “conversation,” which Felix assured me was nonviolent, but he gave me no details. I had been trying to keep the iPad a secret, you know, for security reasons. Now the whole world knows. But they know, too, that they’ll have to deal with Felix if they mess with me!

We went to Tegucigalpa to celebrate Chemo’s brother Marcos’ 17th birthday. As soon as we arrived, we took Marcos and his girlfriend Jessica to Pizza Hut, where I told our server it was Marcos’ birthday, so the staff performed for him, unfazed by the hoopla. His actual birthday was the next day, Saturday, April 26; an invitation had shown up on the FACEBOOK page of “Helping Hands for Honduras” to a “Dia Benefico” to raise funds for the brigadas that come every 3 months to do open-heart operations on little boys and girls, the same folks that saved Chemo’s life back in 2008. The restaurant COCO BALEADAS would contribute proceeds from their sales all day Saturday to Helping Hands. Alba and Ron Roll, who head the foundation, said they and the family would be there around 4:00 p.m., so that’s when we had Marcos’ “official” birthday party. A typical baleada is the size of a crepe, but these “COCO” baleadas (a flour tortilla stuffed with any variety of cheeses, meats, veggies, sauces, etc.) are as big as Yule logs, so even one is a meal. But, for a good cause, we ate as much as we could! We made another donation to get Chemo a shirt, and take his picture with Alba and Ron’s daughter Cynthia, who organized the event.

Meanwhile, the report on the most recent Brigada in March features a little piece on Chemo. I have attached it, just scroll down to see the story. (I’ll try to send the whole report in a separate mailing, if I can figure out how!)

On Sunday, we went to church! Marcos and Jessica live within about 3 blocks, but this was their first visit since they’ve been living in the area. It’s a huge church, but with a hometown feel. There are Masses all morning, and you can tell the priests know most of the people personally. Folks bring their newborns for a blessing, the choir sings favorites, the sermons are informal, families sit together, and the schedule is flexible. In our case, the 11:00 Mass started about 11:35, as the 10:00 service lingered on. It’s the most dangerous barrio in the city, so I carried almost nothing with me, just a little cash, and my camera, though Marcos says things are better now that the place is crawling with military, the latest effort to lower the crime rate. We had no problem, except when Chemo gave a couple tiny kids 20 Lempiras to share and the smaller one almost immediately returned in tears to say the other guy kept it all. But this was staged, as you could tell when they started running around laughing and pulling the same trick on other tourists. You know, you hate to see kids begging, especially when they’re “liars,” but I do love to see the human spirit undefeated!

Back home in Las Vegas, Holy Week began with Palm Sunday, recreating Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem with a teen riding a friendly burro up to the church. But the real highlight was Holy Thursday, when Padre Chicho returned for a visit. He had been pastor here for 10 years, and he could hardly contain himself. “I’m so happy to see you all again!” And I realized how much I missed his sermons when he spoke from the heart of the love of Jesus. “That’s the whole story, right there,” as Jesus washed the feet of his apostles. In fact, members of the congregation spontaneously washed each other’s feet with extra bowls of water and towels. Good Friday was solemn enough, with a three-hour Way of the Cross circling through town to houses we had never visited before. Easter Sunday Mass was followed by games for the kids, sack races and popping balloons while running (and jumping) full tilt, each balloon with a little prize inside.

 But the big news is Chemo’s littlest cousin Nelson (“Necho”) taking his first steps at almost 2 years of age. The poor little guy has been scooting on his often naked butt all this time, scooping up dirt and mud and God knows what (parasites love anal entrances). With a little help from his friends, we finally got Necho on his feet.

I really can’t fault the family for Necho’s late development, since I’m usually stumbling around myself, and I can’t blame that just on my awful shoes. When I bought them less than 2 months ago, they looked so “solid,” but soon enough holes opened up in what were after all mostly hollow heels. Rocks would lodge in the holes and I’d leave them there, they were the only “support” I had! When one perfectly shaped oblong stone finally fell out, a tree burr took its place. Then the shoe tops started separating from the soles, and I thought I gotta get some new shoes before I’m walking around in flip-flops! I finally found something solid, but these dirt streets and mountain paths are murder on any shodding, so we’ll see.

But it’s you who steady my walk, and make it possible to fulfill my “mission.” Whenever you offer a prayer or encouragement or a dollar, it’s a gift.

Update on Maria as we go to print: the operation was a success, Maria resting comfortably back at home, the recuperation on schedule.

Love, Miguel