Saturday, April 30, 2016

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2016

ESTA ES SU CASA—MAY 2016

A MONTH ON HOLD


As we delegados gathered at 9:00 in the morning April 1 for our monthly meeting, word came that Francis, 24, the youngest son of the head of our group, Delma, had been murdered in a barrio of San Pedro Sula just recently claimed by police “cleared” of gangs. Stabbed to death with a kitchen knife in his own bed, Francis may have befriended someone who became his predator. Unmarried and unattached, Francis had just joined Facebook, having some fun in his off hours as a cashier in a supermarket. Here in Las Vegas, he had graduated ninth grade with Dora and Elvis’ daughter Lily in 2006, dancing in the folklore group and doing dramatizations of the gospel in church.

Delma, the strongest of women, was felled by the blow. She would greet well-wishers with a hug and a smile, and her face would immediately sink back to a blank stare. A constant preacher of the resurrection to mourning families, all she could do at her own son’s wake was grab the mic and beg the crowd for quiet. “My nerves can’t take it.” We never even knew she had nerves; she’s always in control and getting things done. But, remember, her husband had been murdered some years before. I was the designated person to speak, and I was shaking; if Delma is lost, what am I? Since Francis is also the name of the Pope, whose constant theme has been mercy, I took a sort of “Je suis Francis” approach, to assure Delma that we are all “with” her, as long as it takes, in her doubts and hurt and struggle, till faith be restored. At the moment, we seemed to be in free-fall. And yet, the women, the volunteers, always faithful, ready with Cokes, and rolls and coffee, and plates of food, kept us grounded in at least a hope of community.

Even Padre Chepito sensed the urgency of the situation and broke his rule of no “private” Masses, that is, at someone’s house rather than the church. He came the next morning, once the body finally arrived after a night of investigations and paperwork at the morgue in San Pedro. He did all he could to speak a word of encouragement.

Delma did not attend the burial; her sister Leila, who had prepared Chemo for his First Communion last year, sort of filled in, but she was only marginally more composed than Delma. Will was stone-faced throughout, almost distant, perhaps fearing his own collapse, not saying a word, not touching anyone nor accepting any embraces. We were at rock bottom.

But every day of the novenario was accompanied by a most thoughtful refreshment, including one day fresh cold slices of watermelon. Delma finally spoke the eighth day. Her theme was, of course, “Thank you.”

Chemo is still inside out. He is so scared of Francis’ “ghost” that he sleeps with the lights on all night. At first, I assumed he just fell asleep, but if I would turn the lights off, they’d be back on before I closed the door. I talked with him several times, but how do you prove a negative? He may be sensing my own dread, lest such a fate befall him. When such horrors happen, I think about it a lot. What would I do?

Meanwhile, Delma’s grandmother, Francis great-grandmother, Paula, was dying. At 103, what else do you do! When I visited, she was conversing with relatives living and dead. They had not told her about Francis, but somehow the membrane between this life and the next seems thinner at such times, and I knew Paula would wait till all the ceremonies were finished for her great-grandson before she passed. And that’s exactly what happened. The novenario ended, we decorated Francis’ grave the next day, and the next night Paula “went to heaven.”

So my chairs that I had loaned for Francis stayed put. A big crowd gathered again, for Paula’s wake, the median age much older, of course, than the Francis turnout. Her death was no surprise, no “tragedia,” as we say, but coming at the time it did, it unleashed pent-up grief and tears. This time, Hilda—Delma’s mother, Paula’s daughter—had to step up. Another deeply strong woman, she has seen it all. For decades, she taught school up in the hills, hitching a ride or just plain walking, for a week’s worth of classes. In Las Vegas, she is the go-to caregiver for victims of accidents with machetes or other messes, until they can get to a doctor. Always the ‘profesora,’ she asks questions, and she asked some about Paula during the days of the novenario, you know, about exactly how was Paula “with God” now, and, with Francis, too? But best were her own stories about her mother, which answered many of MY questions!

Padre Chepito returned for the last night of Paula’s novenario, celebrating Mass outside under the full moon of Passover, though I was probably the only one who noticed the coincidence.

Then, another “tragedia.” Loncho, 35, whom everyone here remembers best when he was tooling around town on his motorcycle with Carmelo, his Golden Retriever, straddling his lap, was shot and killed in San Pedro, apparently in a gun deal gone bad. The guy sold guns! I can’t imagine a more likely scenario for a “tragedia.” But I was stricken, not judgmental, because when Chemo and I went to San Pedro a couple years ago for a special soccer game with teams from Las Vegas, we stayed at Loncho’s house, with his wife Isabel and children Jonathan, 14, and Ana, 9. His nephew Nahum, one of the players, made the arrangements so we wouldn’t have to stay at a hotel.

But Loncho was originally from Copan, at the western end of Honduras, so there was no wake or novenario here. Nothing, really. As painful and demanding as a novenario might be, it’s certainly more of a blessing than just an empty week. Meanwhile, Isabel and the kids are moving back to Las Vegas. Carmelo just stares at the gate, awaiting his master’s return.

The mourning was becoming, don’t let me say routine, but I guess inevitable. Still, I could not grasp the news at first that a nine-month-old baby had died in Paraiso across the river, Nanda’s little girl Jessy, that I have to confess I barely knew existed. A severe attack of fever and diarrhea took its toll in just a couple days; the poor thing died on the way to the hospital. But I went to the house, where Nanda was draped over the child’s body, willing it a return to life. The neighbor women were already at work, with coffee and rolls about to be served. And the tiny casket, the size of a toy, arrived. Jessy’s father Javier grasped my hand, his own hands so rough from hard work. “Miguel, you will pay for the box?” Somehow he knew I was going to offer to do just that. It was the same day as Prince’s death. Can you imagine what a sweet song Prince might have composed for Jessy…?

My 40 chairs had just arrived back in the house after their long circuit when my elderly neighbor Cristina came to the door. Her even more elderly sister had died in La Ceiba (at the eastern end of Honduras), and she had gone to the funeral. But she wanted to remember her here in Las Vegas, where she had been born, so she was asking the delegados for a memorial service. When her daughter Regina, who taught Chemo in second grade, saw all the chairs stacked up, she said, “Mom, no one’s gonna come. They didn’t even know her!” Well! Our community is so good, and we all love Cristina, so every seat was taken. Afterwards, Cristina thanked me with tears in her eyes. Somehow I was again a designated speaker, but I was ready. We had come full circle, you see. Cristina’s sister’s name was…Francisca. So I took the “Je suis Francisca” meme, but more joyous this time, with tears in my eyes.

Thank you, if you’ve read this far. I hope you have a community as loving as this one.

Love, Miguel
















Sunday, April 3, 2016

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2016

ESTA ES SU CASA—APRIL 2016

WEATHER OR NOT

When did March get so long? Maybe when it decided to cycle through a whole year’s worth of weather in one month. Just when the dust was as thick as chalk, it rained again; just when it seemed we had been reserved “a special place in hell,” another cold front had us grabbing for our blankets. I slept a whole day!

Chemo is faithful to his classes, in season and out of season. My favorite part is how he gets to and from Santa Cruz every Saturday on his own. I’m learning the hardest lesson of all, not to baby him so much. Of course, I give him enough money to obviate any possible “emergency.” And he looks pretty sharp in his official Maestro en Casa polo shirt.

Chemo’s schedule makes it impossible to get to Honduras-Progreso soccer games, which are always on a weekend day; but when a game was re-scheduled for a Wednesday, we jumped on it. Not real enthusiastically, mind you, since it was an “away” game in San Pedro Sula, against last season’s worst team, which had just suffered a humiliating loss to Olimpia that involved gunplay outside the stadium before the game and fans tossing a head of a pig onto the field. Shows you what life in Honduras is like, everyone assumed it was a HUMAN head at first!

This season, Honduras-Progreso is the worst team, and they proved it by playing to a 0-0 tie. The team pays for a bus to get the fans (a dwindling base) to away games, so we were with most of the family of just about the only player who is still playing up to his potential, Nangui. Despite the “loss,” he was gracious in posing with Chemo once we all got back to Progreso to enjoy baleadas at his wife’s street-corner stand in Progreso.

Since the game was not much, I was checking out the stadium, because I would be back in a week or so for the fiftieth anniversary celebration of the Delegados de la Palabra, lay men and women who serve as pastors in poor and rural communities. The event was a ‘vigilia,’ a 12-hour vigil, from 5 in the afternoon of Saturday to 5 in the morning of Sunday. Longest night of my life, sitting on the rough cement of the stadium, and no place to stretch out, since the stadium was full to the brim! Also not taking any food or drink from the many vendors, lest I find myself needing a bathroom in the middle of the night. In the distance, I could see lights that by 1 a.m. had all gone out. I did doze off some times here and there, but I tried not to check my watch too often.

And my “Plantar Faciaitis” was killing me! I think I had only ever heard of the ailment in connection with Albert Pujols, but that was the diagnosis of three friends when I complained in last month’s CASA about excruciating pain in my left heel. They recognized it, because they’d had it themselves! Of course, I was just sitting there all night in the stadium, but it felt as if someone had taken my foot and hammered it on the cement every 15 minutes.

And yet. The night turned out to be glorious. Hondurans, to speak culturally, love vigilias. And this one made the long trips from all over the country and the sacrifices that many had made, all worthwhile. The field was decorated beautifully, you’d never think it had hosted a bad soccer game, much less a pig’s head, so recently. The program was planned to the minute, all night long, testimonials and readings and of course tons of songs and music, a big dramatization of sin and redemption with about a hundred teens performing, a launching of dozens of illuminated  balloons.

As the final liturgy began about 3 a.m., I awoke from a final, fitful snooze to the sound of an almost transcendental music, rhythmic and repetitive like a Philip Glass piece but actually provided by the drums and winds of members of the Garifuna, originally Africans rounded up for slavery 300 years ago who escaped captivity when their ship sank off the Honduran coast. Like many African-Americans in the United States, the Garifuna became some of the most fervent Christians of anybody. The lateness of the hour and my weakened condition rendered me totally subservient to the hypnotic power of the music and the moment, and I actually thought I was in heaven, even with the gift of tears.

As I found my way out of the stadium afterwards, I hobbled a couple blocks looking for our bus among the hundreds that had come, and there suddenly appeared a Denny’s! “Open 24 Hours,” baby! I crawled in, and ordered every drink I could think of, chocolate milk-shake, orange juice, Coke with free re-fills. And of course, a Grand Slam. I washed up in the bathroom and even shaved. When I left, the buses were still loading.

Back in Las Vegas, another bunch of kids had returned with their parents from coffee-picking, finally ready to start classes. I helped a few more of Chemo’s little cousins with school supplies. They’re on their way, I hope, to a bright future!

I jumped back to Progreso next week just for a night, to catch a performance of one of Teatro La Fragua’s masterpieces, “El Asesinato de Jesus.” I invited along as many of Nangui’s family that wanted to go. Somehow the piece moved me more than ever. Chito, who has played Jesus since they created the work in 1985, seemed to draw deeper than ever from within, to BE Jesus. You totally forget he’s almost twice Jesus’ age by now!

And then, Holy Week. I guess it’s fitting that we just celebrated the Delegados de la Palabra, because this year we were pretty much on our own, our priest Padre Chepito overwhelmed with his duties in Victoria. So it was “poor,” but you might say Pope-Francis-poor, simple, humble, unadorned, just us and Jesus! Well, you know, at least four of our delegados—Godo, Chepe, Julio, Popo—have served about 45 of those 50 years we just celebrated. And a new element lent a freshness and spirit to the services: we have acolytes! In my day, we were just called “servers,” but this little group of four girls and a boy received literally months of training and preparation, and then they were “invested” about a month ago with their special albs and sashes.


I recruited my own little group to help me with my assigned portion in the 14 “Stations of the Cross” for Good Friday. Vilma has these four little kids, and one’s brighter than the other. They’re just as poor as dirt, but they LOVE church! (Of course, sometimes it’s just because of the open space to run around in, but hey….) I usually try to bring them—Jegser, Alvin, Maria, and Dreivin—a little juice box or soda and some chips or something, because they’re always there! And Vilma makes sure that they learn to share, too; they’ll bring me a little sack of bananas or tamarindas or some such thing. So I thought I’d put them front and center when everyone else participating was an adult. They did great!

“He is risen!” “He is risen indeed!” is a happy Easter greeting among Christians. And I got a very special version of it myself when I returned from San Pedro and Chemo’s relatives greeted me with, “Chato’s in the Grupo!” Meaning, Chato, 30, married father of three, the last drunk among Chemo’s Las Vegas relatives, a seemingly hopeless case, had joined our local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous. I turned to Chato, who was standing right there, grinning from ear to ear. “Is it true?” “Oh, yes!” and he raised his arms like Superman, or maybe like Batman. A few days later, when I shared a little biblical meditation with the Group, Chato participated with his own comments as if he’d been there all along—which is exactly the “ethos” of AA, everybody’s equal.

I’ve had a little resurrection of my own; since I have followed the careful instructions of my Plantar Faciaitis friends, my condition is much improved! The pain is still sharp sometimes, but now it mostly just feels numb. Thank you, indeed!

Love, Miguel










Tuesday, March 1, 2016

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2016

ESTA ES SU CASA—MARCH 2016

BACK TO SCHOOL

I know it seems out of synch, but here we’re just starting the new school year. Chemo is back in class!

But first, we went to Tocoa to visit Chemo’s brother Markitos—and girlfriend Jessica—and sister Rosa and their mother Rufina, and Rosa’s 7-year-old Tonito. It’s a long trip, at least 10 hours, but once we get to Progreso, it’s a long wide curve along the coast on a paved highway over flat land. Of course, that’s a little deceptive, since it takes you into the belly of the beast, the most conflicted territory of Honduras, unending violence between the “owners” of huge tracts of land and the peasants they stole it from. So it was maybe no surprise that at the last stop before ours, a crowd had gathered around a dead man freshly shot in the head.

We were all set to visit in July of 2012, for Rufina’s birthday, when my brother John died. Then my brother Bob died, and we lost any enthusiasm we might have had for a trip. Plus, although Chemo “plays well” with Markitos and enjoys teasing Rosa and treats Tonito like his own kid, he’s really not too fond of his mother. “She abandoned me!” And that’s true; the family just fell apart when the father, Juan de la Cruz, died of a bloody accident, falling on his own machete.

Rosa actually has the best sense of humor of them all; at least she laughs at all my jokes! And Tonito, with his “sixth-sense” shock of blond hair, is quite a studious little third-grader. Markitos does farm work, for pay, and he’s saved enough to join a cooperative that is buying a palm-oil plantation—from a “narco.” “Don’t worry, Miguel, it’s all legal.” Of course it is. Meanwhile, Jessica has taught him to read!

I had counted out very carefully the money I wanted to give them (hoping it would somehow magically reappear in my wallet afterwards), but they immediately used most of it to pay the past due rent. So I squeezed out some more… Of course, I also took them shopping, took them to lunch, got their meds, etc., all with my credit card, so I didn’t strictly “pay” for that. (And probably never will; heck, I still owe my plane fare to St. Louis from last September!)


Back in Las Vegas, with a little help from my friends, I could outfit some kids for school, including some of Chemo’s cousins who, let’s just say, are not used to school, so they asked Profe Mercedes if she would accept them in her little school in Paraiso, just across the river, where they’d get more personal attention. She is so lovely, she said yes, of course! She’s one teacher in one room with 53 students in 6 grades. Another teacher is due next week, if he doesn’t run away!

Meanwhile, the oldest parts of the school in Las Vegas were demolished. I doubt I would be any help in an emergency, but I was watching closely, in case one of the dads volunteering for the work should have an accident in the crumbling debris. The whole roof of the 50-year-old relic is corrugated slabs of asbestos, but, hey, they “know” it’s carcinogenic, so they’re using gloves….

Of course, Chemo’s return to school is the big news. He has FOUR teachers for the different subjects, which means, I hope, that if one teacher is absent, he won’t lose the whole session, which runs from 8:00 till noon every Saturday. Plus, he’s got about 10 classmates, to help keep him accountable. And then there’s YOUR support! When I put the news on FACEBOOK, it literally brought tears to my eyes to see all the encouraging messages for Chemo’s success. Gracias!

For lack of funds, we did not go to a single Honduras-Progreso (“featuring Nangui!”) soccer game all month. Not that we missed it that much, since the team is playing so poorly.

What finally got us off our duffs was, first, Maria’s birthday in Morazan. Her daughter Arlin planned a surprise party, but that was sort of spoiled when son Eduard walked in with four three-liter sodas and plunked them down in the middle of the kitchen. Plus, a cake had been sitting in the fridge for two days. But I love to see Maria and Fermin together, still noodling like newlyweds.

Second, we had Neysi’s 22nd birthday in Tegucigalpa, where we also picked up 2 boxes from Mac McAuliffe at the airport, a sewing machine for Dora, Neysi’s mom, and kids’ clothes. We celebrated at Pizza Hut in between classes—they’re all university students, Neysi, Lily, Tito, and their housemate Bayron. The pride of Las Vegas!

Do you think it’s possible to get the Zika virus only in my left foot? I’ve been hobbling around like an extra in “The Walking Dead” for at least a month. Feels like someone hammered an iron spike in my heel. I guess it’s the kind of thing you’d say, stay off it! But you know, I’m walkin’ here! Sometimes, it barely hurts at all, then there it goes. Sometimes it hurts worst when I’m just sitting down. Where’s that medical marijuana when you need it!

All my love, Miguel










Thursday, February 4, 2016

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2016

ESTA ES SU CASA—FEBRUARY 2016

LEAPING YEAR

First thing we had to do for the New Year was re-rope the church bell. Any other time it snapped,  Chepe Bautista would climb high up on the roof and balance himself on the eaves to reconnect the line. But Chepe, who served for decades as the sacristan, opening the church in the morning, locking it up at night, preparing everything for the services, putting everything in order, was dying now, and we had already started a nightly watch to accompany him and the family. So Cristian, a leader of the Youth Group, scrambled up there and made the repair, this time with the strongest cord we could find.

A couple days later, the bell was tolling Chepe’s death. He was so sturdy and strong, it didn’t seem possible that he was gone. Father of my neighbor Dora and grandfather of her and Elvis’ kids, I considered him a father, too. You know, he never learned to read, but he knew the Bible cover to cover. I say that, just based on how he lived.

The holiday soccer tournament ended up in a championship game that was a near duplicate of Honduras-Progreso’s triumph over Motagua. The home team, Atletico Vegas, and the team from Panal (up in the mountains) played all afternoon (at least it seemed that way) in a 2-2 tie, with another scoreless 30 minutes overtime, till penalty kicks finally settled the score in our favor, and the crowd went crazy. Still, both teams took time to join in prayer, a moment of quiet and tears.

Honduras-Progreso is not much of a champion right now. Chemo and I had to go to twice to Progreso to see even one goal from Ñangui’s team. Ñangui’s mom Santa always prepares a bag of confetti, but their 2-0 loss to Olimpia was the first time in their home stadium that the bag stayed on the bench. But Ñangui did give me his cap, as compensation for having to sit through such a lousy game. Two weeks later, the team from La Ceiba scored a quick goal in the very first minute, and the crowd languished, disillusioned and discouraged, deep into the second half, when the coach finally sent Ñangui in. The fans came alive, fired up, eager, and in less than a minute, Honduras-Progreso had its goal and the confetti flew! Ñangui did not score the goal himself, but he cleared the way, confounding the slow-footed defense like a whirling dervish.

Ñangui’s little brother Joel invited Chemo to play on his team, called “Palanca” or ‘pump handle,’ a nickname for their captain Marlon, who is really skinny and really tall. Marlon promised Chemo he’d start! Then they told me where the game was, at a field at least two miles away, at night, on the other side of the bridge over the frequently flooding Ulua River, not just a high-crime area, the HIGHEST-crime area! Or at least I thought, but Santa was going, sort of like the den mother, and Ñangui’s sister Karla was going and bringing her two little boys, so I thought, what the heck, I’m not gonna live forever anyway….

I did pay a guy with a van to get us there, but as we climbed out, he said, “Don’t call me,” for the return trip. The field was dark, everything was dark, but you could make out the forms of some guys by a picnic table. As they approached us, I resolved to protect Chemo at all costs, assuming I didn’t have a stroke first. They were saying something, maybe picking who gets who, and then…, one of them gives another a lift up a pole where he opens a padlock and throws a switch and the whole field is flooded with light! “Ready? Let’s play!” So, no massacre after all….


We stopped at Morazan for a few days on our way back, to see Fermin and Maria’s new granddaughter Briana, the child of Eduard and his girlfriend Evelin. Now, Eduard is just six months older than Chemo, and I always use him as a role model, since he’s got an education degree and already has two years of teaching experience under his belt—and now he’s got a baby! Chemo, don’t do THAT! Please! But maybe you saw my former student Brian Marston’s photo he posted on FACEBOOK when he heard the news; he came to Honduras with me in 1994 and held Eduard as a new-born.

Then we all joined forces to fell a small but stubborn tree that was leaning dangerously over all the electric cables for the neighborhood, giving us a classic photo, sort of a reverse of the famous shot of Iwo Jima.

The folks injured in the horrible bus crash a few days before Christmas are recovering. I was especially thrilled when Maricela, who had at least twenty stitches all over her face, said, “Wait!” to put herself in the photo of her husband Juan Blas and son Felipe with their birthday cake just a couple days ago. And her niece, Michelle, whom I had seen faint at least once from the pain of her wounds, now wears a sleeveless blouse without embarrassment, even though her right arm is just a quilt of scars. Alma and her daughter Merlin, perhaps the worst injured among the survivors, with almost identical ravages of their whole left side, are walking some and moving around, and I guess the muscle and tissue are gradually reforming. Alma even mentioned baking cookies again, some day. I will buy the whole batch, I swear!

Chemo’s making his fourth attempt at seventh grade. It was all his idea! He made the arrangements with the same teacher, David Suarez, who nursed Chemo through his Maestro en Casa class a few years ago to get his sixth-grade diploma. By David’s sheer mercy, Chemo passed that class. (Final exam, 7 X 8, something like that, was about the toughest question.) So we are hoping for a repeat; I think we’re all on the same page on this, you know what I mean?

But pray for us that the Zika doesn’t get us. This dreaded disease is sweeping the continent, causing birth defects so frightful that women are being told not to get pregnant for at least the next two years! And, besides the mosquito that originally came off the Zika tree in the jungles of Uganda, it seems the disease can also be passed by sexual contact. Where’s the OFF! for that?

Love, Miguel