ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2014
PLACE YOUR BETS
“The Beacon” / “St. Louis Public Radio News” fashioned my last report, the ups and the upchucks, sweet celebrations and sour sickness, into one fine presentation:
Will Chemo pass seventh grade, second time around?
You’d have to say, the odds are in his favor. In fact, it looked like a lock, when he talked me into signing him up for Maestro en Casa in Morazan, where he would spend weekends with Fermin and Maria and their kids. They have a very professional program there, directed by Fermin’s brother-in-law Javier, including actual classes on Saturdays that cover the material the students will be working on during the week at home in their “cuadernos” (combination text- and workbook). Eduard, Fermin’s son, would be able to coach him along, and another buddy, Hansel, was eager to help, too. Hansel even invited Chemo to attend Confirmation classes with him on Fridays, where Chemo could also prepare for First Communion. I loved the idea, the whole big picture, and just put the question of how we’d finance weekly trips on the back burner. Like Scarlet O’Hara, “I’ll think about that tomorrow.”
Things fell apart very quickly. Fermin, who had already on previous visits chased Chemo into the house after late-night sessions in the street with Hansel and Eduard, warned Chemo that he would have an early curfew. Well, that very night, the day we signed Chemo up, Fermin woke me about midnight, scolding Chemo outside my window. As I told Chemo, “You already failed your first test!” and I promised Fermin there would be no more episodes. The next morning, Javier very kindly refunded my money, and Chemo, a little shaken, packed up to return to Las Vegas.
Looking back, I guess the failure was inevitable; Eduard and Hansel were as easily distracted as Chemo. Fermin and Maria would do anything for us, but I would have been on pins and needles the whole year, worrying about the imposition.
So back to the drawing board. The ball was still in Chemo’s court. He decided to try Maestro en Casa in Las Vegas, joining a couple buddies, Elder and Carlitos, also not stellar students but we’re not setting the bar so high anymore. Elder and Carlitos dropped out of seventh grade last year BEFORE they flunked, and went to work with their uncle Marvin the mechanic, who repairs everything from bicycles to dump trucks, though nowadays the largest portion of his business are the moto-taxis, those ramshackle three-wheeled modified motorcycles reconfigured for transporting passengers. From the money they’ve earned, Elder and Carlitos are paying their own way for Maestro en Casa, so that provides some extra motivation to carry them, and maybe Chemo too, along to a successful conclusion.
And Chemo has a back-up if Maestro en Casa fails. He’s learning to be a tailor from Ostin, who’s been sewing for 20 years. Ostin is a very patient, engaging teacher. He even gave Chemo a “test,” after a few lessons, to make a proper back pocket. Chemo got it on the second try. Of course, Chemo barely understands the importance of having a marketable skill, especially one so domestic, so he’s “bored.” Bored? What about Ostin? His “real” job is at a sweatshop in San Pedro Sula, where he works 4 12-hour shifts a week (he prefers the overnight slot because it pays more), and returns to Las Vegas for a few days off. He showed me a little video on his cell phone: he sews one seam on a tee-shirt and passes it on to someone else who sews the collar, who passes it on to someone who sews a sleeve, etc., 500 dozen a day. The clothes are exported to Canada. Are there even 500 dozen people in Canada? But it’s good work if you can get it. Could Chemo get a job like that? Ostin warned that they’ll take on look at Chemo’s open-heart surgery scar and turn him down, too risky for their “insurance” plan.
So, Plan C? Moto-taxi! Chemo rides with drivers (some as young as 13, unlicensed of course) all over town, including trips to Victoria and also to some villages toward the hills. I’m supposed to buy him one, you see, and his future would be set. “I’ll charge a little less, and I’ll get all the business!” I can just imagine the “business” he’d get! But the things are on display at a store in Victoria, and at car shows at the malls in Tegucigalpa. Bright, shiny red ones and green ones and yellow ones, even purple ones, no hint of the wrecks they become after a few turns on our “roads.”
Plan D? That would be me, Dulick, till death do us part.
Meanwhile, the rest of the Las Vegas kids started regular classes at our school, Pedro P. Amaya. I have to say, it’s still exciting, those first days of a new school year, all the kids eager, neatly dressed in their new uniforms, the teachers hopeful and welcoming. Even though Chemo is not part of it this year, I like to go up there to sort of applaud all the other kids I know, including Marite, off to kindergarten.
But this school year began under something of a cloud when the father of principal Horacio Cruz died. It was weird; I saw someone pass by my house early one morning with a shovel, then another and another. That can mean only one thing, I’ve learned: they’re digging a grave. When they told me Horacio’s father had died, I just had to assume they meant GRAND-father, Santiago (“Chaguito”), the oldest guy in town at 106, who I visit with about three times a week as I pass his house and he calls me onto the porch. But no, they really meant Horacio’s father, Saul, Chaguito’s 73-year-old son. Does the unnaturalness of a parent burying a child still apply when the father is 106 and the son is 73? Well, Chaguito sure showed that age does not diminish the gouging loss of your “baby”; he just sat there by the coffin weeping, sobbing, moaning, inconsolable.
Horacio is one of our community’s most prominent pastors, but he invited his brother-in-law Pedro from Progreso to preach. It was a terrific sermon, the resurrection front and center. “God’s love is too great to be defeated by death! We do not die without the hope that God’s promises will be fulfilled!” He quoted one of those heavenly visions of swirling scenes of saints and angels in the Book of Revelation from the New Testament, and, from the Book of Job, lines featured prominently in Handel’s “Messiah”: “I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.”
A few days after the funeral, Chaguito had found his footing again, and waved me onto his porch. We had a nice, long hug and you could tell he was at peace. He had seen the Redeemer, too.
Old, odd doña Clara Velasquez, 98, saw visions, too. For years she had been stroking and petting and kissing and singing lullabies to a baby doll that I guess she thought was “real.” Certainly real enough were the caresses she would bestow on you if you got within her reach. We should all be so “crazy”! Word spread that she was near death, so a big crowd gathered at the house. She was all shrunken up now, very tiny in a bed, one arm still waving weakly every now and then in the empty air, no doubt reaching for her baby. She was being tended to by her daughter Paola (“Paya”), ancient enough herself. Finally all was still, and the death ritual began, everyone quickly taking their places and performing their helpful duties without a word being exchanged. Padre Manuel came to say a Mass in the house. Not a word about the resurrection--or, for that matter, about Clara. Go figure. Well, he didn’t really know her.
If you want a daily dose of resurrection, you have to go to Alcoholics Anonymous. They cycle through it every 24 hours. Doenis, 22, is polite enough when sober, but his sarcasm cuts like a knife when he’s under the influence, which is a lot of the time. I kept inviting him to A.A. as the only answer to his manufactured excuses and his crocodile tears. When A.A. invited me to their Thursday meeting, featuring a little refreshment, this time Doenis accepted! We walked over there together but we were way early, and I began to doubt he would hang around. Indeed, he did disappear before the others arrived. But picture this. I’m such a “sleeper” that I dozed off as soon as they served up some rice pudding, and I woke up in my chair to the sound of Doenis’ voice. His confession, if you will, his testimony, his First Step. I listened for any “outs” or excuses, and there were none. And other members, especially an uncle of his, encouraged him and challenged him to keep going. Afterwards, Doenis told me how good he felt, how different he wanted to live now, how grateful he was. Unfortunately, as he had already told the Group, he was heading up to the mountains for a week or so, to work. So we’ll see what happens next.
“Heliocobacter Pylori” is a deadly parasite that eats your stomach lining. But it looks, I guess, like a little helicopter. (Who names these things? Winnie the Pooh?) Dionis, Chemo’s cousin, was afflicted last year; so was Dionis’ mother Natalia, and her daughter-in-law Dania. The list is no doubt longer, given the conditions around here, though the insert in the “Pylori Pack” that cures it says they don’t yet know what causes it. How about--dirt-poorness? Few are diagnosed because the “exam” (a stool sample) costs 500 lempiras ($25) and the “Pack,” an intimidating cocktail of antibiotics and strippers and liners--80 pills in 10 days--the kill-or-cure regimen--costs 1000 lempiras ($50), and I’m about the only one who can “afford” it, a term I use rather loosely these days.
So when Dora from Nueva Palmira came to my door with an order for the test from our Dr. Meme, I have to admit that I tried to “talk” her through it. It just seemed too much. Talk about parasites! But somehow an angel or someone touched my heart and I gave her the royal treatment, including accompanying her there and back, with extra moto-taxi rides to Nueva Palmira. I’d just been reading Pope Francis’ latest publication on “The Joy of the Gospel.” He’s got so many quotations in there about the poor, I swear he made some of them up! Like Doenis, I had to take that First Step, if I wanted to see the Redeemer’s very human face.
You know what? Beto sees the human face of God in everyone he meets--and he’s blind! When he gently reminded me that his birthday was coming up, I knew it was time for the “Beto Pack,” a delicious combo including one of Carlota’s great big fat cakes, cold soda, lots of guests, and some birthday songs. We crammed 8 kids into a moto-taxi from here to La Catorce, stopping at Jacagua on the way to get the cake, and Beto invited the neighbors. If, like Beto, you did not have the sense of sight, could you describe the cake’s candy colors in terms of the sense of taste? What does BLUE “taste” like? Well, I should save that for FACEBOOK.
Wishing you a timely Spring!
Love, Miguel
