ANY FAMILY…
On my birthday October 12, Chemo texted me from Honduras:“muchusimas felicidades mi papa en su dia y gracias por darme su carino tan hermoso y q dios me le regale muchos anos en su vida, lo kiero mucho papa”
[“Congratulations, mi papa, on your day, and thank you for giving me such loving care; may God grant you many more years of life. I love you very much, papa.”]
It bent me to my knees, practically in tears! And this as I was finding my way to a table in Blueberry Hill where I was having lunch with my cousins. You see, it’s the first time Chemo called me “papa”! Twice!
I’ve never insisted or even expected him to call me Dad, since he witnessed the bloody death of his father Juan de la Cruz right in his own house. Chemo was only 5 at the time, years before I adopted him at age 13. So it’s been worth the wait!
On the other hand, a cynic would say it was Chemo’s most effective ploy to get the “tacos,” or soccer shoes, he’d been begging me for. And yes, I went straight from Blueberry Hill to I Dick’s Sporting Goods in West County Mall for the shoes! (Hedging my bets, however, I bought a pair on sale for $25, not exactly the $150 fancies Chemo specified.) But you know what, I don’t care even if I am being played—“Dad” or no “Dad,” it made me realize again how much I love him.
May I say, Pope Francis prepared me for Chemo’s birthday greetings. Teresa’s good friend and former student Kim, who now lives up east, invited us to Philadelphia for the final Mass, providing us with frequent-flyer plane tickets, the hospitality of her marvelous mother Donna, and her own inspired guidance as she led us on a 45-minute hike AGAINST the crowds, way to the other side of the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, where we found immediate access to a Security check point and walked right in. We got a spot just at the railing and waited till Pope Francis rode by; he seemed to spot Teresa’s little sign, “GRACIAS FRANCISCO.” Later we learned that thousands of folks on the other side where we started had waited six hours and never got in! If we can ever get a Pope FranCES, Kim has my vote!
The Pope’s theme was the Family, which he defined as a unity of love. So, “ANY family that welcomes children and teaches them little gestures of love and kindness, will be appreciated by us, no matter what their origin, make-up, or style.” I began to cry, to think of how many of my friends and loved ones have longed to hear such welcoming words from an “authority” figure, especially one who seeks to share the love of God. So my heart was already softened when Chemo finally called me “papá.”
“Gestures of love” were in abundance among family and friends during my visit to St. Louis. Teresa went above and beyond as always in hosting me, with our friend “Rams,” now 87, keeping pace. My sister Barb got me to her son Jason’s games at Gateway High School, where he is head football coach and athletic director. My niece Jen and her sweet daughters Jayme and Justyne seemed to get more excited every time I saw them. I went along with another niece Myia and her daughters Katie and Lara to the St. Louis Zoo, to the delight, may I say, of the animals, who seemed to enjoy such endearing children.
My birthday October 12 began at Spencer’s Grill, where George the cook presented me with a birthday pancake! Other breakfasts, lunches, dinners, visits here, there, and anywhere, filled my time to overflowing (and my belly like a spare tire!), still missing too many folks because of the strictures of sheer time. I’m sorry!
I talked in several schools, where I invited students to imagine that they, like thousands of others, had just arrived from Honduras. You’ll notice that in the United States, pets are often “a member of the family,” while Hondurans and other immigrants, who actually are human beings, are “aliens.” In the United States, marijuana is “harmless,” because users are ignorant of what it costs Honduras—“the murder capital of the world”—to keep the supply coming. In the United States, even a high-school football game has an ambulance standing by, while in Honduras “health care” is often a death sentence. In the United States, kids express themselves with colorful and stylish clothes, clothes often “Made in Honduras” in sweatshops that pay a dollar an hour to human robots. But I also try to encourage these citizens of the future to, someday when they can, make a difference: for example, a “favorable wage,” as the Universal Declaration of Human Rights says, “worthy of human dignity”; or sharing their healing mastery as a surgeon or nurse with the poor; treating everyone like family.
That’s the negatives. The positives—the reason for hope!—include Chemo, of course, whose life was saved by “Helping Hands for Honduras”; thanks to his open-heart surgery in 2008, Chemo just reached his 21st birthday, complete with rooftop party at our house. And Nangui, rising from dirt poverty to become a star of the first-place soccer team Honduras-Progreso. At one middle-school, we called Nangui’s grandma Tina (with my cell phone on ‘spkr’) on her birthday to sing “Feliz cumpleanos”! And my neighbors Elvis and Dora, whose sacrifice and dedication have gotten their children Lily, Neysey, and Tito all the way to the National University. And Fermin and Maria’s children the same. And Elio and Mema, the same.
Examples multiply, more than enough to keep me making my life there.
I mean, here. I’m “home” again in Honduras. I already miss you terribly.
Love, Miguel
