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

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2014

LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL

I know I wrote it myself, but somehow this version of my last report, as it appeared in THE BEACON / ST. LOUIS PUBLIC RADIO NEWS, touched me even more. Chemo finding his footing.

http://news.stlpublicradio.org/post/commentary-honduras-four-choices-or-what-young-man-without-diploma-do

But it will be my last published report. Donna Korando, my editor from The Beacon, fought to keep me on the “staff,” but the merger with St. Louis Public Radio News decided to drop my “Letter from Honduras,” preferring commentary of more “local” relevance. Well, the idea that stories of the Honduran poor have no local appeal will come as a surprise to the 10,000 or 20,000 Hondurans who live in St. Louis. Maybe one of you could tell the stories of Hondurans in St. Louis. Either that, or back to the shadows, amigos! 

Lent has taught me some very harsh truths; or maybe it’s Adam Smith. All I know is, I’m underwater. I’m in debt more than I make in a year, including $15,000 just in credit cards. Losing the $75 stipend from The Beacon may not seem like much, but it feels like the tipping point, along with losing Chemo as a boost on my income taxes. I could sell my house, which is worth about that much (but who could buy it??), and then I guess I’d sneak back into St. Louis, ashamed and longing for a job at McDonald’s. Imagine! 

So I ask for any more help you can give me. So many need so much. 

We’re still carrying Erlinda, who just observed the six-month anniversary of her husband Guillermo’s death. The date fell on a Sunday, so she asked Padre Manuel for a special mention at the evening Mass, and she had prepared some little “recuerdos” that I helped her with, bookmarks featuring a photo and a prayer. Her own health problems,  with diabetes, and her daughter Maricela with the same problem, and Maricela’s daughter Marite with kidney issues, are always a priority in my attempts at budgeting. Regular clinic visits in Tegucigalpa and El Progreso turn maintenance into a major expense, especially when the government runs out of pills. And now Alba, Chemo’s aunt where we eat supper, is having recurring heart issues. Santos, her husband, is trying to hit up a politico for help. Yeah, that’ll work. Manuel continues his daily visits from Terrero Blanco, hungry for the specialty of the house, spaghetti bolognesa, and other kids are crowding into the circle, too, as I dish it up. You know, everybody’s hungry here! (I snapped a great picture of Manuel hugging his grandpa Pilo on Father’s Day.)

But you already know those stories. Here’s some more, that give me--and you, I hope--a cause for sharing. 

A girl’s 15th birthday--the Quinceañera--is her debut as a woman, according to tradition. Mayde, the daughter of Luisa, one of the most popular, not to say glamorous, teachers at our school, got the royal treatment. The back yard was strung with lights and decorated in princess style, including a special entrance at the back stairs, her friends and classmates in their showiest fashions, two cartloads of presents, enormous plates of food loaded with three dishes in one--a beef kebob, a lettuce taco, a mound of fried rice--not to mention a 5-tiered cake and bottles of Welch’s grape juice “champagne,” lots of music and dancing, and constant photos. Included were Mayde’s father, who departed the scene some years ago for another woman in El Progreso, and other relatives of that “side” of the family. 

Alberto, the “new man” in Luisa’s life, looked over the whole scene with generous--and, I should say--humble approval, appreciating Mayde as his own. At some quieter time of the evening, Alberto and I could talk. He and Luisa find themselves in a Catch-22: they want to get married “in the Church,” but Alberto has never been baptized. Someone told  him, he says, we can’t get married until I’m baptized, and he can’t get baptized while they’re “living in sin.” I told him, “That’s why we have Pope Francis!” According to “The Joy of the Gospel,” a copy of which Francis gave to President Obama last week at the Vatican, the Church opens doors, not closes them. And indeed, Padre Manuel is already on the case. 

The huge expense of Mayde’s party was painful, of course, to my self-righteousness. I don’t begrudge a celebration of your children, but it seemed so excessive in our poor town. So it made me cry to see Chemo’s cousin Damaris celebrate her Quinceañera a couple days later with nothing much more than the 5-pound chicken I bought for the family at Abel’s store, the biggest bird in the freezer. Damaris, every bit as pretty as Mayde, even without the hours of hairstyling and make-up, was abandoned by both her parents, and will never be a debutante, so shy and shadowed in her poverty is she that even school proved too much of an exposure; she celebrated her day helping with the little family “business” of washing other people’s clothes. (And sometimes she has to go back two or three times to collect, a challenging foray.)  

Damaris had just returned from three months of coffee-picking in El Transito, the last of the family, along with Natalia’s daughter Estela and sons Dionis and Marcos and his wife Dania and their three kids, Beatriz, Lindolfito, and Daguito. Now Dania is pregnant with their fourth child. We waited for them all morning, and I made sure we had coffee and rolls all ready as soon as they arrived, and then, as they settled in and relaxed a bit, the fixin’s for a typical and tasty breakfast of eggs and refried beans with sides of cheese and mantequilla, and hot fresh tortillas, and for this special day, ice-cold Pepsi. It marked a red-letter day for me, since it was the first time I dared to indulge in the same meal that almost killed me a month ago. I was very glad to be back in the saddle instead of riding the porcelain donkey! 

Again, a quiet moment, as I was about to leave. Marcos called me aside, into the house. “Hermano, I have this for you, what you loaned me.” And he handed me two lavender 500-Lempira bills, the equivalent of $50. This represented literally days of coffee picking, and I felt like a Scrooge accepting it, but it was the end of the month and this would tide me over. “Marcos, I want to cry,” so grateful and so desperate was I for this poor man’s money. But I already knew what I would do; a couple days later when I went to Yoro to squeeze more blood from the stone of my bank, I used most of the money to buy Marcos a cell phone, to replace the one he sweated to death in El Transito. And then HE was so grateful! “Hermano, you always take good care of us.” Please! As I told him, a man with a pregnant wife needs to be able to communicate. And they both know I’m here with other “loans” along the way, such as Dania’s ultrasound at Dr. Wilmer’s office in Victoria coming up this week. 

Chemo and I began the month of March with a trip to Tegucigalpa (which is how I blew the whole month’s budget in one week!). The Brigada was in town again. As usual Ron Roll and his wife Alba were thrilled to see Chemo; Ron grabbed Shaun, a young volunteer who was doing stories on the kids for the BabyHeart newsletter in Memphis, and had him interview me and Chemo for a future feature. I loved telling Chemo’s story all over again, and I had to choke back some tears along the way, it still overwhelms me so. I emailed Shaun some pictures of Chemo’s operation; it seems so long ago, September 2008. Then Dr. Mark Gillette, a first-timer with the Brigada, did a quick echocardiogram of Chemo, so quick I barely had time to snap a picture. I thought, Hey, this guy’s sharp! He pronounced Chemo fit as a fiddle. That’s something. 

Also in Tegucigalpa, we saw Chemo’s little brother Marcos. He’s just 16, but ol’ Marcos has got himself a “wife,” Jessica, who is 19. Ever since we heard about this hook-up some months ago, I had my doubts that anything good would come of it. Well, turns out they are actually happy together! Marcos is even more laid back than before, if that’s possible, and Jessica is sort of mothering him as well wife-ing him. We took them out three times in three days, once to the mall, where I was sure they would ask for everything in sight. Not at all! In fact, get this. We stopped in a bookstore, my idea, but I noticed Jessica was looking around, and looking around; when I saw her near the children’s books, I thought, Oh God, they’re pregnant! But then she kept circling back to “Matar a un Ruisenor.” You know it as “To Kill a Mockingbird.” “We read some of this in high school,” she said. Marcos never got past second grade. “Then you must read this to him,” I said, and I bought it for her! I swear, this is first time anyone ever wanted a book in my time in Honduras. That’s something. So I am hopeful for their relationship, after all. Besides, she is the niece of Marcos’ boss, so he’s being “watched.” 

I assumed term limits applied to my presidency of the Parents Association at the school, one and done, so when Profe Flor the principal announced at the first big meeting of the year, “Of course, you can always elect the same officers again,” I panicked. Then I heard whispers of “Miguel” this and “Miguel” that in the room. “Who seconds Miguel?” Flor asked, following proper procedures, you know. She turned to the board and began to write, “Presidente Miguel,” my heart was in my throat, then she finished, “Cruz.” Yes! Yes! He’s a wonderful, guy! Of course, I’d gush over anyone taking my place, but I’ve known him so many years, ever since I heard him give a little sermon in his home village up in the mountains before he moved to Las Vegas, warning us not to accept a “cheap Jesus” that we could manipulate for our own benefit. And he said more in his first ten minutes after his election than I said all year. 

For Father’s Day--here celebrated March 19, Feast of St. Joseph--the students at the school performed songs and poems and skits and dances for the dads. Even though Chemo is not at the school anymore, I was invited and gladly accepted. Just like my time at Parkway North, I love to see the kids at their best. 

The same day, a new dad, Javier, was desperately trying to save his little baby Brittany’s life, fighting pneumonia at the hospital in Yoro, where an ambulance from Victoria had taken her. (The “ambulance” is a white pick-up, not exactly EMT, don’t you know!) Mommy Yolanny went, too, of course, and just when they thought the tiny child was on the mend, and had actually checked out of the hospital, she fell limp in their arms again on the bus home, and they immediately headed back to Yoro, I don’t even know how. Finally, a couple more days of “intensive care” (these are all very relative terms here in Honduras, in case your image of a hospital is Mercy or St. Luke’s) and Brittany came home, for good, for very good! I snapped a picture, and you never saw a happier little family. The help I could give them made the whole emergency a little easier.

The month ended with a “retreat” last Sunday in the church. Padre Manuel had delegated each portion of the day to a different volunteer, and at first I thought, Oh, boy, this is gonna be a long day. But from the very first word, they exceeded all my expectations. Maybe it helped that, against all odds, I decided I would do my best to stay out of God’s way, discard my doubts, and let my heart empty out. So I was amazed all day, filled to overflowing. The theme of the day was “light” and the blindness that keeps us from appreciating it. Most touching for me was when we dramatized a popular video that maybe you’ve seen on YouTube (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CKvvSLC29Ws) where a blind panhandler has his sign--”I’m blind”--changed by a Good Samaritan to, “It’s a beautiful day.” Padre Manuel remembered it a little differently, “La vida es bella“ (“Life is beautiful”), but it’s the same idea, changing a self-pitying message to a prophetic one. But what really got to me was that Don Fausto, the only rich man in town humble enough to, as Martin Luther King put it, “recognize his dependence on God,” played the beggar. He’s such a simple soul, how can I ever thank him for opening MY eyes? I’ll mention it when I give him a copy of the photo....

And do you know you bless me, too, beyond measure! It is ironic that, having slogged and slid through your horrible winter, you see spring greening up everything again (and Go Cards!), while here we are in full summer, the driest, hottest, dustiest time of the year. Our greening comes later in May. But that’s...OK. Oh yes, life is beautiful!

Love, Miguel