tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72913477218099589902024-02-07T21:45:33.670-06:00Esta es su casaMIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-19978759955567606182016-04-30T09:06:00.001-05:002016-04-30T09:06:06.244-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2016ESTA ES SU CASA—MAY 2016<br />
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A MONTH ON HOLD<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.”<br />
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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?<br />
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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.”<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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…?<br />
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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.<br />
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Thank you, if you’ve read this far. I hope you have a community as loving as this one.<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-74556552452222329052016-04-03T07:11:00.002-05:002016-04-03T07:11:42.131-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2016ESTA ES SU CASA—APRIL 2016<br />
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WEATHER OR NOT<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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“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.<br />
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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!<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-19548106490234286902016-03-01T19:49:00.003-06:002016-03-01T19:49:27.110-06:00ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2016ESTA ES SU CASA—MARCH 2016<br />
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BACK TO SCHOOL<br />
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I know it seems out of synch, but here we’re just starting the new school year. Chemo is back in class!<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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!)<br />
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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!<br />
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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….<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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!<br />
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All my love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-37172262143925309692016-02-04T14:03:00.001-06:002016-02-04T14:03:16.589-06:00ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2016ESTA ES SU CASA—FEBRUARY 2016<br />
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LEAPING YEAR<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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….<br />
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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….<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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?<br />
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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?<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-45962189969585476902015-12-31T09:53:00.004-06:002015-12-31T09:53:28.736-06:00ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2016ESTA ES SU CASA—JANUARY 2016<br />
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CRUCIBLE<br />
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The glory of Honduras-Progreso’s national championship, the sacred joy of two weddings, and the thrill of Christmas vacation, all were plunged into darkness on Sunday, December 20, with the fatal crash of a bus loaded to standing-room only just minutes from its destination in Las Vegas. The brakes failed on a steep, twisting descent to Victoria, but passengers didn’t even realize there was a problem till it hit with such blunt force that every seat was ripped from the floor and sent airborne, slicing through the bus like a wood chipper, throwing victims out of broken windows, the front of the bus like some monster vomiting debris and passengers. Three dead at the scene, including one decapitated. Another died in hospital, with two or three more lives hanging in the balance.<br />
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Chemo and I might have been on that bus, if we had not decided to stay an extra day in El Progreso to celebrate with Nangui’s family the soccer championship. I had attended the wedding of Manuel Figueroa and Gloria, along with his 11 brothers and sisters and their spouses and kids, and his mother Erlinda, the very same Erlinda I was begging your help for some months ago, Erlinda, the widow of Guillermo, who died so tragically of a chemo overdose a couple years ago. Yes, and the mother of Maricela, the mother of six with her husband Juan Blas, including my little namesake Miguel Angel, and Marite, whose sixth birthday pictures are featured in this CASA.<br />
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In the accident, Erlinda got a horrid black eye and other strains and bruises; Maricela broke a rib and got enough cuts on her face and hands for twenty stitches; Juan Blas got a walloping bruise on his right leg, which only FEELS like it’s broken; Miguel Angel somehow escaped without a scratch; Marite broke her collarbone and is hefting a big plaster cast. Michelle, 16, a cousin, who often plays Jesus in our Sunday dramatizations of the gospel, just a lovely girl, had the whole back of her right arm sliced open to the bone. Another little niece, Fernanda, has two lines of stitches like barbed wire across her whole forehead.<br />
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One death that affected us all was Leydi, a neighbor of mine, a friend to everyone. The wife of Pastor Mauricio, whose little church serves a variety of good folks, she had a simple, some might say plain, face, but it just glowed. When I was president of the parents club in 2013, during Chemo’s first attempt at seventh grade, she was not an actual member of the Junta Directiva, but she helped us with every project all year. I looked in vain just now for a nice photo of her in my archives—nothing, she’s always in the background! I had to borrow a couple from her cousins posting on Facebook. Her little son Quique and his cousin Jesse often come by my house selling bags of the most delicious cookies you ever had, made by Leydi”s mother Alma, who is fighting for her life, after a literal scourging in the havoc of the accident. You see, this family, like Erlinda’s, was returning from a wedding, too. The bus, chartered to accommodate all the folks heading to Las Vegas, including a couple dozen workers getting their Christmas break from sweatshops in Choloma, a suburb of San Pedro, apparently was not subject to inspections the way the public buses are; and the driver, who by all reports has gone insane, is in jail, plagued with nightmares I guess of a route he had never driven before.<br />
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In comparison it’s nothing, but at the moment, I thought my experience at the Big Game was the end of my life. As I said, I went to the wedding of Manuel and Gloria, while Chemo went early to the stadium, along with Nangui’s family. By the time I got there, about 6:30 p.m., the gates were closed, with 400-500 ticket holders still clamoring to get in. This had riot written all over it, so I hung back, especially when I saw the police raising their weapons. I figured they had tear gas, too.<br />
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But the crowd started pushing, and battering the biggest gate, solid steel, the size of a barn door—and suddenly it twisted and shook and gave way and fell like a stricken dinosaur. Then they really pushed. I tripped and fell, hard, losing my glasses, but something strange happened. A circle opened around me as they helped me to my feet, and somebody returned my glasses to me. In another moment, I was pressed so hard against the metal frame of the fallen gate that I thought my back would snap in two, and I lost my phone; somebody pulled me through, and somebody else returned my phone. Once inside, I thought I’d be ducking bullets, and I clung to some little trees there; a man with a face so sweet I thought he was an angel came to me and held me and asked me if I was all right, “We’ll get you a seat, Miguel.” I looked and looked and finally recognized Alexander Lopez, the MAYOR of El Progreso, a man I know through our mutual friend Wilfredo Mencia. You know, maybe he said, we’ll get you an ambulance, but anyway I was restored, and now brave enough to do some pushing of my own, gently, gently, excusing myself a thousand times, till I made my way to where Chemo and Nangui’s family could see me from the stands.<br />
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I stayed down by the fence, and swore I would not move no matter how hard it rained. Well, I moved at least five times, to shelter under the stairs. Motagua, a 13-time national champion, a legend, a tradition, and a cheater (they had their own version of deflate-gate that got their coach suspended) scored first. But Honduras-Progreso kept its cool and evened the score before the half ended, by which time both teams were so covered with mud, it was a guess who was who.<br />
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Controversy in the second half, as the referee waved off a goal by Motagua for being off-sides. Well, you know, every champion needs a little luck! (In the game the week before, at Motagua’s stadium in Tegucigalpa, the “homer” referee red-carded a Honduras-Progreso player on some made-up infraction right after he scored the first goal; but even shorthanded, Honduras-Progreso managed a 3-3 tie against the Big Boys.) And when Nangui came into the game ‘long about minute 65, the whole stadium erupted in wild cheers. I swear, even the Motagua fans were joining in!<br />
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Ninety minutes, and thirty more of overtime, till it came down to penalty kicks. At first, Honduras-Progreso looked completely lost; they were just standing around chatting or something, while Motagua was busy as bees running and pointing and pretend kicking. Turns out, our coach had a hunch the title would be decided by “penales,” so they’d been practicing for over a week, winnowing out any weak links, till the crew of five was composed strictly of players who had not missed a shot. Ready when you are, Motagua! Of course, I was nervous as hell, but when the first Motagua player sent the ball totally over the net, I let myself believe—a bit. When the second Motagua kick also sailed over the net, I began to think of what I would say to Nangui. Meanwhile, Honduras-Progeso made every one of their shots. As Homer Simpson would say, No problemo!<br />
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So we won! Glory, rapture! And as huge as the crowd was, 7000 fans crammed in a stadium built for no more than 3500, there was no undue celebrating, turning cars over, throwing things, setting fires (another thing Motagua had been suspended for a time or two), much less any fights (Motagua’s biggest suspension came when their fans actually beat a rival fan to death!). So, really, the whole “futbol” world—at least the Honduran portion of it—agreed: Honduras-Progreso was a worthy champion, in only its third season of operation. It was like a sandlot bunch of kids taking down the New York Yankees, David v. Goliath. “Go crazy, folks, go crazy!”<br />
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Then the bus accident, so I barely posted on FACEBOOK about the game at all. And I felt so helpless that I was not with the mourners and the injured in Las Vegas. Actually, there was not much I could have done; Dora called me to ask if Leydi’s family could borrow my chairs for the wake; and the injured were not home themselves, with hospital stays and such. A time for weeping.<br />
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I really think the best news of this CASA is Chemo’s First Holy Communion. For me, it marked not just the season but the whole year with grace. Leila had prepared him so lovingly all year long, with his little class consisting of nieces Cecilia (“Chila”) and Reina, and a very shy boy named Emerson, who came down from Guachipilin, an hour’s hike, for their weekly lessons. We celebrated with a special “triple” cake from Carlota, since it was also Chila’s birthday. I kept reminding Chemo and the girls, don’t forget about your second First Communion and your third First Communion and so on. Chemo’s already up to his Seventh Holy Communion, including a 6:30 a.m. Mass at the Cathedral in Tegucigalpa. That early rising was a miracle for Chemo right there!<br />
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We went to Tegucigalpa for Lily’s graduation. The first in her family ever to attain a university degree, she graduated from La Pedagogica, the largest teacher school in the country, and Magna Cum Laude at that, in a class of over 500 graduates. The whole family went, her parents Elvis and Dora, and the kids Dorita and Doricel; her other siblings Neysey and Elvis Jr. were already there, also “universitarios.” A timely Christmas gift from a dear friend in the States helped with all the travel, and also a big celebration afterward of Chinese food—take-out, of course! <br />
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All the best for the New Year! Keep us in mind, as we pick up the pieces, here in Las Vegas and there in the Flood Plain.<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-69631492292704131282015-12-02T11:40:00.002-06:002015-12-02T11:40:48.380-06:00ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2015ESTA ES SU CASA—DECEMBER 2015<br />
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GOT KIDS?<br />
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Do you have any kids? And do you have any money? ‘Cause you can’t have both! Chemo needed new glasses—again! (The cheap pair we got on sale broke already.) He needed a new phone. (The kid who stole it had spent the night; he grabbed the phone before Chemo woke up; we chased him in two moto-taxis all the way to Victoria, where the police had already been alerted, but he got away, so the six of us ate fried chicken at PolloLandia). He needed new shoes. (He’s harder on keds than a labrador puppy.) He needed new pants and a new shirt—for his FIRST COMMUNION! (Coming up this Sunday!) And, as if all that weren’t enough—he still EATS!<br />
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“Maria Bonita”—I thought it was a charming nickname (‘Pretty Mary’) when I first heard it years ago, till Dora sheepishly admitted it was a diss, because Maria was so ugly! At that point, I decided to be her Avedon, and take as Vogue-ish a portrait as possible. She was so poor, but so noble, she never shrank from the public eye, even if folks might have been laughing at her. Then, about a month ago, word spread that she was sick; at 94, she would not get well. But none of us counted on the long road she had to travel. Every day, we were sure it was her last. As she shrank to the size of a raisin, I kept trying to understand why she had to suffer so. But as weak as she was, she reached out to anyone who visited and pulled them close, her dimming eyes brightening. A group would gather every night at the house. I stopped by early on her last day; she was taking short, quick breaths, the sign the end was near. Indeed, she soon just stopped, and her daughter started to weep as she tested her pulse and pressed her ear to her chest. All quiet. I know I sound like someone with a tin-foil hat, but I finally decided that she lingered so long so that WE would get stronger. She was Catholic, but her family had evolved to a pentecostal sect that thinks you do not pray for the dead. So, in effect, she had her Novenario BEFORE her death. Her “real” name: Maria de Jesus. Pretty, after all.<br />
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Chemo and I went to Nangui’s final regular game, which the team managed to tie up 1-1 in the last minute with a penalty kick. Back at the house, we celebrated Nangui’s little sister Yulissa’s birthday with the usual menu from Pizza Hut and Nani’s Bakery. Chemo danced and danced. As a few of the family walked us back to the hotel about 1:00 in the morning, we heard others shouting after us, “Look out, there’s a guy on a bike going to rob you!” Wouldn’t that have been perfect! It will probably happen some day, but whoever it was may have been intimidated by the two big house dogs that follow the family wherever they go.<br />
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Meanwhile, in his team’s final game, Chemo scored a goal, against his own nephew Joel! Not that I would doubt Chemo’s skill, you know, but I was not totally ready with the camera and I got only a very impressionistic image of the event. Chemo was so excited, he turned an Ozzie Smith type somersault—I didn’t get that either!<br />
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Fermin and Maria didn’t seem that excited to see me, when I stopped by Morazan before returning to Las Vegas. Well, they were both exhausted from the end of the school year, final exams, final grades, final farewell parties. So I just lay low, till Fermin perked up after a couple days: “Miguel, when are we going to the Lake again?” By which he meant Lake Yojoa, the largest fresh-water lake in Central America, where a line of a hundred little restaurants all feature fried fish to die for. Maria grasped Fermin’s hand: “Tomorrow?” That was the “sign” I was waiting for! The next day, everybody managed to get out of school a little early; Fermin’s car was in pretty good shape for the hour-and-a-half ride; and by 1:00 p.m. we were all hunched over plates of fried fish at Gabriela’s, not a random choice at all, it turns out. “She never raises her prices,” said Fermin, which I appreciated since I had made it clear this was my treat. And Gabriela herself was there, a bit elderly now but so proud of her establishment.<br />
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Juan Carlos had a birthday. I long ago managed to quit him of the nickname “El Mudo” (Deaf-Mute), but some folks were still a little unsure who I was talking about when I invited them to the party, and virtually no one could guess his age—41. They always think of him as a child. And indeed, as one friend said on FACEBOOK, he’s an adult with a child’s heart.<br />
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Maricela celebrated the same birthday—41—a few days later. She not only has one child’s heart, she’s got seven! That is, Mariela, Milena, Juan Jose, Helen, Felipe, Miguel Angel, and Mariana Teresa, called Marite. It’s Marite, who just turned 6, who’s keeping Maricela busiest lately; the child has monthly appointments in Tegucigalpa for a kidney problem, and most recently needed plastic surgery, of all things, for some growth on the back of her head!<br />
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Chemo’s cousin Keyla turned 5, and we celebrated with toys donated by Wydown Junior High students. Even Grandma Natalia got a coloring book!<br />
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Quelin Archaga’s father Justo came to Las Vegas to deliver personally an invitation to her ninth-grade graduation in El Zapote. Back in 2004, when Christy Tharenos was visiting, she befriended Quelin and has kept in touch ever since. So I would be Christy’s representative! Quelin, everyone assumed, was Number One in her little class of 6, but another girl beat her by one-tenth of a point! Now, really, are teachers so sure of themselves that they can measure things that close? I always tried to round UP, on the assumption that my own evaluation was faulty. (Kids did seem to get better grades if the Cardinals were winning when I was reading essays at Busch Stadium!) But it was a sweet ceremony nevertheless, and Quelin wants to be a teacher—a math teacher—if the family can scrape up enough money to finance the next phase of her education.<br />
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But I guess my favorite occasion last month was the wedding of Elio and Mema’s niece Cecilia (“Cesi”). She lived with them in Tegucigalpa from high school all the way till her graduation as an architect from the Catholic University, so I had watched her grow up. She made a beautiful, may I say, beatific, bride.<br />
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Well, I’ve got to get my Christmas tree up, so let me just wish you all the happiest of holidays, and I’ll see you in 2016!<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-86783653580494112452015-11-04T09:59:00.002-06:002015-11-04T09:59:36.971-06:00ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2015<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: normal;">
<b>ESTA ES SU CASA—NOVEMBER 2015</b></div>
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The never-ending birthday. As soon as I got back to Honduras, Elio and Mema—they picked me up at the airport!—took me out for a birthday lunch at Ni-Fu Ni-Far, a big fat restaurant specializing in beef from Argentina. Believe me, I was grateful, and I would have made a pig of myself under normal conditions, but I was still so stuffed from a month in St. Louis, I did my best just to save face. “I’ve got a spare tire,” I said, bouncing my bulging tummy. “That’s a tractor tire!” exclaimed Mema. Really, there was feast enough just being with them. Mema is due to get the cast off her broken foot sometime soon, though even if the bones are setting, lots of therapy is still due. </div>
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The topic of conversation was Jaime Rosenthal, a perennial try-out for President, never achieving the nomination but forever a mainstay in Liberal politics and Honduran society with the dozens of businesses he owns (including Banco Continental) and the newspaper he ran (El Tiempo, which somehow named him “Man of the Year” almost every year!). Now in his 80s, his life is ending in disgrace, thanks to a son and nephew who have been laundering drug money through his bank for more than a decade. Without Jaime’s knowledge?? The United States is bringing the charges and calling for the extraditions, but the government of Honduras, firmly in the hands of the National (conservative) party, is taking advantage of the situation to foreclose every single Rosenthal asset, including the bank (300,000 customers left holding the bag) and the newspaper, which over the years published columns written and ghost-written by Jesuits with no other opportunity for a national voice. Weirdest of all, the Rosenthal Zoo, with 9000 alligators, languishes untended. </div>
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As Elio and Mema declared, isn’t a man innocent till proven guilty? As personal acquaintances, they feel for Jaime’s plight. But this news comes sandwiched between one mayor after another taking perp walks for running drugs and hiring assassins. The mayor of Sulaco, just a few miles from where I live, ran a “banda” that rubbed out rivals, recently found in shallow graves, as many as 60 people, including the son of a teacher that works with Fermin in Morazan. In that case, the young man was not fast enough with the wanted information about some drug peddler he only knew by name. </div>
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Still in Tegus, I took Lily, Neysey, and Tito—Elvis and Dora’s kids all studying at the University, plus another friend Bayron, to lunch at Pizza Hut. This has to rank as one of my greatest “investments,” helping this family to accomplish something unheard of in Las Vegas, 3 kids at once in the University! </div>
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Then I returned to Las Vegas, just in time to celebrate a couple birthdays before I zoomed off to Progreso. First, Chemo’s niece Albita, more formally known as “Suyapa,” turning 4, who I presented with the Dora the Explorer backpack she asked for, courtesy of Jane Lindberg, who plucked it off amazon.com the moment I mentioned it in St. Louis. Then, Chemo’s cousin Lindolfito, turning 7, and to him I gave the toy cars that kids at Wydown Middle School had donated. </div>
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To Progreso, then, for a game with Nangui’s team Honduras-Progreso. They scored a goal early in the contest and held on for a 1-0 victory over Juticalpa. Honduras-Progreso has been in first place since day one, and they should finish there with just two games left in the regular season. </div>
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But guess what? Chemo did NOT go with me! I didn’t know what to think; first, he calls me “papa,” as I reported in the last CASA, and now he says, “I better not go; I’ve got to go to my First Communion classes.” Are you kidding me? He’s finally taking the sacrament seriously. Suddenly, the kid’s a candidate for sainthood! </div>
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I spent a few days then in Morazan, where I delivered the film Fermin had asked for (regular roll film, in those little canisters, still available at Walgreen’s!) and the Sleep-Eze he was eager to replenish. Maria was tending to some tiny kittens whose mother died the same day they were born. I was still sort of just winding down after the wall-to-wall visitations in St. Louis, but they surprised me with yet another birthday party! The whole family pitched in, and I couldn’t have been happier. </div>
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Now that I’m back in Las Vegas, the lines are forming, and the needs are multiplying, starting with Maricela with three appointments in a row, two for little daughter Mariana Teresa in Tegucigalpa and one for herself in Progreso. Dora from Nueva Palmira is still not healed from her hernia operation, and Chemo’s half-brother Santos is passing blood. These and other dire straights gouge out the substance I thought I had built up in my “account.” But in a country whose corruption bleeds over the whole hemisphere, I take heart from a quotation I saw from Pope Francis: “How shall we define who is a ‘human being’? A blessing? Yes, a human being is a blessing; a human being blesses others.”</div>
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The living look for some helping hand, and the dead, as the sweet Book of Wisdom says, “are in the hands of God.” So I spent a lot of time in our cemetery on November 2, the Day of the Dead, more piously called the “Poor Souls.” Folks had been chopping down weeds for a week in anticipation of the observance; then flowers, pine needles, ribbons, and other memorabilia would decorate our loved ones’ resting places. I usually sit by the grave of Miguel, and not only because it’s in the shade or because we share a name. He was a teen who died in 1991, struck by lightning in his corn field. Every year his mother arrives with another “corona” (crown) of flowers. The never-ending story, and each of us has one, blessings all around.</div>
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Peace,</div>
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Miguel</div>
MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-83177367332208236042015-10-19T21:11:00.001-05:002015-10-19T21:11:13.658-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--ST. LOUIS EDITION 2015<b>ESTA ES SU CASA—ST. LOUIS EDITION 2015</b><br />
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<b>ANY FAMILY…</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-2X0GkbxTmuRO65y72ZpjZLIpXiBMW6OXhAVGmCiCMUs-quVnFtui6cVgrEfENO5gVwMM95WmzB39_aI6BJQ1cnpEQRzmVRVC1kpBuARbLRgk0Y1U2ru658k-0o2BhBSJRZQmQdqzq36/s1600/DSC06750.jpg+JAYME+JEN+JUSTYNE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-2X0GkbxTmuRO65y72ZpjZLIpXiBMW6OXhAVGmCiCMUs-quVnFtui6cVgrEfENO5gVwMM95WmzB39_aI6BJQ1cnpEQRzmVRVC1kpBuARbLRgk0Y1U2ru658k-0o2BhBSJRZQmQdqzq36/s1600/DSC06750.jpg+JAYME+JEN+JUSTYNE.jpg" /></a>On my birthday October 12, Chemo texted me from Honduras:<br />
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“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”<br />
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[“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.”]<br />
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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!<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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.”<br />
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“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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Examples multiply, more than enough to keep me making my life there.<br />
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I mean, here. I’m “home” again in Honduras. I already miss you terribly.<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-13326253964316868352015-09-02T14:22:00.003-05:002015-09-02T14:22:54.228-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2015<b>ESTA ES SU CASA—SEPTEMBER 2015</b><br />
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<b>MEET ME IN ST. LOUIS: SEP 17 - OCT 19</b><br />
<b>Phone: 314-210-5303</b><br />
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If I was embarrassed to ask you for money for Erlinda, I’m even more embarrassed to tell you the follow-up. I told you the situation was urgent, that her operation was due very soon, and folks responded and cash came in. But when Erlinda went to San Pedro Sula to check in before the surgery, they told her, “Ma’am, you’re not even on the list.” They “re-scheduled” her for 2016! I’m afraid this is typical, postponing treatment till the patient finally just gives up—or dies.<br />
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I am so grateful to you, and Erlinda even more so of course! We got about $1600 from about 20 donors, which is wonderful, and your prayers mean even more to me because I get so discouraged sometimes, and your Spirit gives me hope. Erlinda put the money in the bank, where at least it can earn a little interest, for the time being. But that was not the original idea, so I feel like I plucked your heart-strings under false pretenses, and I’m sorry. From now on, I’ve gotta work with what I’ve got, no more of these “targeted” appeals! <br />
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Daisy finally had her baby! a full month after her husband Jovany was so brutally murdered on the original due date. That terrible day, we were sure the baby would be lost, as distraught and stressed as Daisy was. Remember, it was Erlinda who nursed her through the crisis, calming her and caressing her as no one else could, and I guess the little boy just needed some more time, too! Last-minute complications necessitated a cesarean delivery, but otherwise the delay does not seem to have harmed mother or child. She named him “Dixi” for his dad, Dixi Jovany.<br />
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Even a death can be a consolation when there’s time to prepare and say good-bye. My neighbor Mina reached her 90th birthday still greeting every visitor with a hug, and a kiss on the mouth! When she finally began to succumb to her age, she took to bed, so weak she could barely move, but she was still calling for family and friends by name to come get their hug and kiss. The night she died, we took my extra plastic chairs over to the house for the wake. Chemo and I were going to Progreso the next day on the 5:00 a.m. bus, but when Blanca, Nora, and Bebeto arrived to offer music as their prayer, I stayed all night. They went through practically the whole church songbook, songs Mina loved—and I’ve loved!—all these years. Actually, I did doze off and on, and when I was going to request one of my favorites, I thought, What if they’ve already sung it?<br />
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We went to Progreso for one of Nangui’s games, and his twins’ first birthday. Now, Nangui could not play in this particular game because of two totally unjustified yellow cards in the previous game, but he did not just sit on the bench. He sold baleadas at his family’s stand inside the stadium. It didn’t take long for reporters to notice, and they started filming. Now that HONDURAS-PROGRESO is winning again, they are the darling of the media, with at least weekly features, usually Nangui right in the middle of it all. And then I open up La Prensa and a two-page ad for Banco del Occidente, one of Honduras-Progreso’s chief sponsors, has Nangui smack in the middle! “We make the best even better!”<br />
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Honduras-Progreso was leading the whole game 1-0 till the very last minute—in fact, AFTER the last minute, minute 94 in down time—when a Honduras-Progreso defender deflected the ball into his own goal. Ouch!<br />
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But that did not dampen the next day’s festivities, little Ivan and Camila’s First Birthday party. And Nangui and Martha went all out—party favors, goodie bags, Mickey and Minnie caps, stickers, 2 pinatas, 2 big cakes, all kinds of snacks, 3 kinds of food, and special guests, Nangui’s teammates like Angel Tejeda, top goal scorer in the League, with their own kids. And did I mention there was a big, colorful tent, and tables decorated like Disneyland?<br />
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Someone might say, and I have to admit the thought crossed my mind, this is a little excessive, especially considering the tiny guests of honor have no idea what it’s all for. But Nangui was himself a year old at one time, in 1986, and he never got a party. His mother Santa was 23 at the time, according to my calculations, and she must have been 14 in 1977 when I first met the family, with her mother Argentina holding the whole family together making about 500 tortillas a day on consignment for restaurants around town, a family so poor they couldn’t even give Julio a proper funeral when he was killed at 18 in 1990, or his younger brother Joel later, jammed into the same grave. They never had a real birthday party in the 38 years I’ve known them, until now. Oh, I’ve been “doing” parties for them with the Pizza Hut or the Chinese and the cake and the soda, sure, but it’s not the same. Now Nangui’s got some money as a professional soccer star, and his bright fame has helped double or triple Martha’s baleada business, so IT’S CELEBRATION TIME, COME ON!<br />
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Then we went to Morazan for Fermin’s birthday. His mother Antonia wanted to give him a special party, but it was hard for Fermin to celebrate since his car had just broken down for the umpteenth time, and it looked like it was the end. Years ago, he told me had three dreams: own a house, own a car, and get his wife Maria as much education as he achieved. Well, Fermin and Maria have a house, they both have Master’s, and at least Maria still has a car, which breaks down pretty regularly, too.<br />
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We returned the next week for my namesake Miguel’s 13th birthday; it was the surprise of my life when Fermin called me 13 years ago. First of all, the birth was very complicated, touch and go, Maria and the baby were both on the knife-edge of life and death. “He’s Miguel, Miguel.” I was so confused, I thought it was a coincidence! “For you!”<br />
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Speaking of confused, I was really nonplussed when three boys came to the door in Morazan with what looked like a passport. “Did you drop this?” Huh? I looked at it as if it were a moon rock or something. Actually, it was Chemo’s Honduran passport that we got for him when it looked as if they might send him to the States for his open-heart surgery. How in the world…? “We just figured it might be yours.” I still have no idea how they made the connection—Luilly, Giulany, and Jose Luis—but the more I thought about it, the more astounded, even scared, I was at our good luck. Seems it slipped out of the folder I keep with Chemo’s “papers,” including his heart diagnosis history in case of an emergency. I think I may have scared them a little as I went on and on with my thanks and praise. I gave each of them 100 Lempiras, which they refused at first till I convinced them to get something for their little brother or sister. <br />
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We went to Tegucigalpa for Elio’s birthday, which almost didn’t happen. His wife Mema had just fallen and badly broke her left foot; they operated on her and put two pins in there that in the X-rays looked like rebar! An enormous cast up to her knee, and instructions not to stand on that foot for two months, absolutely! would have been enough to kill any joy, but Mema came up smiling and announced, “The party is ON!” No dancing for Mema, but everyone had a great time. As an aside, I loved the way Chemo helped Mema with every request.<br />
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While in Tegus, we stopped by to say hi to the Brigada, also in Tegus at the time. It’s such a beautiful mission, saving at least 2 lives daily for two weeks at a time, 4 times a year, including a blueish little boy that we saw and tried to encourage him and his anxious parents. “Chemo, show them your scar!” Ron and Alba were dead tired, and the brigada has become so well known that Ron said, “There are 800 kids in that room—I’m not kidding.” Kids waiting for evaluations; I hope he was kidding, because how in the world can they attend to so many children??<br />
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The big game—a showdown between the top two teams, HONDURAS-PROGRESO (HNP) and frequent national champion MOTAGUA—was over in about 25 minutes, as HNP scored 3 goals one after another right out of the gate. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t “go crazy!” every time. What I most appreciated was the good behavior of the huge crowd, piled in practically on top of one another. I soon had to stand, just to have the arm-room to snap a picture. Only a couple days before, two other teams in San Pedro had so many fights and commotion that the police fired tear gas into the crowd! The paper had a photo of a little boy sitting there in his team shirt, stunned and motionless, a white cloud swirling around him, like, “What is happening?” None of that in Progreso, best fans in baseball, I mean, soccer!<br />
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Next stop, ST. LOUIS!!! See you there!<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-21807438827492087122015-08-03T22:37:00.000-05:002015-08-03T22:37:06.247-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2015ESTA ES SU CASA—AUGUST 2015<br />
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LAUDATO SI<br />
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When I saw Erlinda, the still center in the swirling caos at the overflowing house of Jovany, who had just been murdered the night before at a “fiesta” (that Chemo also attended!), the fatal blow a machete chop to the neck, Erlinda holding Daisy, Jovany’s wife, a full nine-months pregnant due any day, any hour! Erlinda rocking Daisy, fanning her, briskly (she’d already fainted twice), giving her a cup of water, while crowds of mourners, some screaming like banshees, others pushing and shoving to see the patched-up corpse in the rough casket, with busy women already in the tiny kitchen making pans of coffee, and uncomprehending kids still playing in the dusty street of Paraiso, that’s when I decided to swallow my pride and put out the call that I had been delaying for months, and so I posted:<br />
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“ERLINDA'S illness is advancing faster than my own resources can keep up with. She is scheduled for an operation that costs 15,000 Lempiras, about $750. The patient also has to pay for all the supplies required. And then there's the follow-up. I told her I'd ask for help, and it's not the first time, as you probably know. She's the life of our community: midwife, teacher, counselor, nurse, poet, performer, baker and cook, the soul of hospitality, quiet preacher with parables drawn mostly from her own life experience, mother above all--and widow. It was her husband Guillermo's crisis, cancer, and death in 2013 that first forced me to your side, yanking at your hem for help. And you were so good to us! Thank you now for any kind thoughts and prayers and donations!”<br />
I had forgotten to mention her crocheting, a constant handiwork, including her hat in the photo!<br />
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Some generous money started coming in, and I know there were prayers and wishes, too, that I could “see” in my mind’s eye. Erlinda, of course, is beside herself, to think she still has such faithful friends in the USA!<br />
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Other celebrations include the birthdays of two of Erlinda’s grandchildren, her daughter Maricela’s sons Juan Jose, 18, and Miguel Angel, 11, sharing a gorgeous cake designed by Carlota, both names entwined.<br />
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A spontaneous celebration began with a cry—when just about midnight Fermin’s daughter Esly, 19, and I were sitting across the dinner table from each other with our computers fired up. I was on FACEBOOK, and I assumed she was, too, since she posts a lot. Suddenly, she yelped and burst into tears. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Actually scared me! “Mommy! Mommy! Come here! Please, please, please, Mommy!” Maria, her mother, and Fermin had gone to bed two hours before, but she kept calling. I asked what’s going on; she couldn’t even talk! I thought someone died, maybe her new and wonderful boyfriend was hurt—or was telling her to get lost. Finally, she jumped up from the table and rushed to her parents’ bedroom door and started knocking. I had to look; I turned her computer around and…what is this? Ah! It’s the National University website, telling Esly Caballero Marroquin that she had successfully passed the Entrance Exam! Then I had to cry! She had been, as it were, “hacking” into the webpage to get the results the very first moment they were available at midnight. Just think, in all ways a typical teen, but far more polished and self-aware and accomplished than most, her biggest wish was not for a bunch of money or anything material, but simply the opportunity to continue her education, after already having two intermediate degrees since high school. Maria, nor Fermin, ever did get all the way up; they did all their hugging and more crying in private. But I got my own chance to hug her and congratulate her. She closed up the computer: “I gotta go to bed.” I doubted she could sleep, as excited as she was, and I do imagine she was in her room on her cell phone, messaging friends with the good news. The next day, I went looking for a little present. I found a fancy ball-point pen at the “Unicentro” store, got it wrapped, with a card. And asked her to pose for a picture.<br />
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Then there was Nangui’s birthday. I wanted to celebrate, but I didn’t want to meddle. He’s probably the most popular person in El Progreso, so we just had a pizza party for lunch at his mom’s house, because he’d be “busy” in the evening! But we combined the event with his little nephew Yimi (“Jimmy”), who was turning 5, and neighbor Adelmo, who was turning 21.<br />
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We returned to Progreso just a week later for “Opening Night” of the new soccer season, a much anticipated match-up between Honduras-Progreso (HNP) and Real Espana of San Pedro Sula, nicknamed “La Maquina” (“the machine”). When I saw that 18 of 19 staff writers for the national sports paper “Diez” predicted a victory for Real Espana, I KNEW Honduras-Progreso would win! The game was in San Pedro, at Olympic Stadium, newly painted and refurbished for the national team’s run to the 2016 World Cup in Russia, pretty intimidating, you might say. A more direct harassment was the confiscation at the gate of any HNP fan jerseys, including Chemo’s that we had just bought for 200 Lempiras (10 bucks). Luckily, a few guys with our group had an extra shirt, so Chemo didn’t have to go in naked!<br />
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There was a small crowd, but the “Mega-Lokos” cheering section of Real Espana was out in force. They expected a quick and easy victory, but just seven minutes into the game, their star player deflected an HNP kick into his own goal! Took the air out of the stadium. Now, I sensed the deflation, but I didn’t realize till a day later that it was an own-goal. That’s how much attention I was paying! (My excuse to Chemo, who thought I was the dumbest fan on the planet, is, we were sitting about half a kilometer from the field, I couldn’t even see who was who.) As the game was about to end with a 2-1 win for Honduras-Progreso, the Mega-Lokos started a bonfire. “They’re burning our shirts!” Actually, it’s probably better that none of us self-identified as HNP fans as we left the stadium; there could have been real trouble, the Real Espana fans were so mad. The word I kept hearing was “Mierda!” So we got back on the team bus as quietly and quickly as possible and got the heck outta there. Back in Progreso, we celebrated with baleadas at Nangui’s wife street-corner stand.<br />
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This CASA is a little late, because I was hoping to report on Daisy’s baby, but she is still un-delivered at this point. Due dates are very approximate in Honduras, but of course we are worried that her husband Jovany’s murder is threatening more damage yet to the family…. So please keep her and her child in your heart. And if anyone can bring this to a healthy birth, it will be Erlinda, so thanks again for loving her, too.<br />
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In fact, may I say, “Bless you”? whether from God or your own goodness. I’m taking a cue from Pope Francis’ so-called “green” encyclical “Laudato Si” (“Praise be!”). The long first chapter is all climate-change science, no mention of God at all, but gently focused on irreducible human dignity, especially of the poor. Then, almost apologizing for “the convictions of believers,” he expresses the hope that “science and religion can enter into an intense dialogue fruitful to both,” based on mutual respect. Thus begins the gorgeous second chapter, “The Gospel of Creation.” Not unlike the Alcoholics Anonymous chapters on one’s “Superior Power,” so compelling a testimony, both inspired by what one might call the “science” of experience.<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-62582797045613651802015-06-30T07:55:00.002-05:002015-06-30T07:55:14.916-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2015<b>ESTA ES SU CASA—JULY 2015</b><br />
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<b>“¿ARGENTINO?”</b><br />
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If Barack Obama were President of Honduras, he’d be making Charleston-type “statements” three times a week, to catch the conscience of the populace. Eight teens playing soccer, five friends at a party, a whole family, including babies, on and on. Of course, here it’s drugs not racism, and it’s machetes as likely as it is guns.<br />
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We are such a little, lost country; and it’s likely to get worse. There’s the Chikungunya that just won’t quit, for one thing. My friend Fermin put it this way, “The critters like the joints.” I never thought of a virus that way; I never thought of it as individual little tiny creatures colonizing my wrists and ankles and knees, just nibbling away, feels like your hand’s caught in a vise.<br />
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But now there is increasing political strife, maybe presaging another coup, as the country’s disgust with its government’s corruption is literally lighting fires, huge marches of folks carrying “antorchas” (torches), demanding that President Juan Orlando Hernandez (JOH) resign in the wake of revelations that he stole 30 million dollars from Social Security to finance his campaign. (His defense? “Oh c’mon, it wasn’t THAT much!”) Meanwhile, JOH partisans are sponsoring equally large marches to renew demands against former President Mel Zelaya and his gang, who stole just as much, highlighted by “wheelbarrow-gate,” when a Mel cabinet member took a literal wheel-barrow full of cash out of the national bank, to finance Mel’s campaign. The military is getting itchy; they do NOT like being caught in the middle. And Obama, who has welcomed JOH into the White House numerous times, is now keeping his distance.<br />
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When Chemo and I visited Fermin and Maria and the family in Morazan, we marched right along with their first “antorchas” march: “Fuera, JOH! Fuera, JOH!” (Get out, JOH!) Actually, Chemo didn’t march; after all, he VOTED for JOH! And he’s now admitting they paid him for his vote.<br />
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We were in Tegucigalpa shortly afterward, for Chemo’s annual (!) dental appointment; the cab driver saw the huge crowd gathering in front of the presidential palace, and he scrambled to find a back route through alleys and even driveways, to get us back to the hotel. You may remember that Chemo was sick for a week a year ago with dangerously high fever after his teeth cleaning. As most of you agreed, it was due to lack of a “prophylactic” antibiotics treatment, standard for anyone with a heart condition. Well, this year we were ready, and so was Dr. Juan Handal. He called up the national expert, a personal friend, for the very latest protocol. He prescribed I guess you could say the “superglue” of antibiotics, Augmentin, horse pills with a magic ingredient that unblocks any “resistance.” I thought, Great, now Chemo’ll die of an overdose! But it worked like a charm, for the teeth cleaning, and the seven little cavities he had picked up since last year. He felt good enough, and I felt bad enough, watching him squirm for two hours in the dentist’s chair, to get soccer shoes, sneakers, two shirts, and a pair of shorts out of the deal. My pleas that we had just spent $500 on his teeth, fell on deaf ears, both his and mine.<br />
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Picking up some meds in Yoro at the Kielsa pharmacy, I was flattered, I guess, when the young clerk heard my Spanish and asked, “¿Argentino?” He thought I was from Argentina! Well, I was torn; I said, “No, I’m a gringo,” but I knew he’d feel bad for such a mistake. I wondered, should I have said, “Yes! Just like the Pope!”? What is an Argentine accent, anyway? I would prefer an Honduran one.<br />
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The meds were for Juan Carlos, the young man shot in the shoulder a year ago by some idiot aiming at his boss; it was finally time to get the bullet out that over time seemed to be inching closer to his spine. Besides the brush with death, the “accident” made me mad, because, here’s a guy, Juan Carlos, now 28, who against all odds has been taking good care of Maria since they met at age 15, along with their two little boys. Living a clean life, no gangs, no drinking, no messing around, and sending money back from the finca where he worked in Comayagua to build a little house in Nueva Palmira about a mile from Las Vegas. Dr. Ruben Garcia, from Cuba, performed the “minor” surgery, just 10 minutes, local anesthetic, cost: $5.00. The expensive part was the bus trip, food, a night in a hotel, the meds, and a fluffy pillow we got to rest his shoulder on the way home over dirt roads. Cuban doctors have been volunteering in rural hospitals of Honduras ever since Hurricane Mitch in 1998. Imagine! The only part of Honduran society NOT corrupt is the Cuban part! Conditions are “M*A*S*H”-level, I guess, with the operating room looking more like a locker room. But there’s a painting over the door that shows Jesus guiding the hand of a surgeon as he operates. Kitsch, I guess, but it caught me up short—I started to pray, because, really, there’s no such thing as “minor” surgery!<br />
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Helen had her 16th birthday, Necho his third, his sister Julia her seventh (serenaded by cousins Daguito and Lindolfito), Santa (Nangui’s mother) her [redacted], Santos his 41st and his daughter Mirna her 17th (the same day!)—and Tia Clara her 95th! We celebrated them all!<br />
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Chemo is taking First Communion classes, for the umpteenth time! He’d always quit halfway through, when I was in the States. This time it might work, since the wonderful Leila, who has raised 12 kids of her own, is giving him individual attention. She let Chemo pick the day and time for the class—so he has NO EXCUSE for missing any lesson!<br />
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I don’t want to miss a moment of your kind thoughts and love and support. Keep in touch!<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-38576815670214068142015-06-01T14:50:00.001-05:002015-06-01T14:50:21.992-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2015<b>ESTA ES SU CASA—JUNE 2015</b><br />
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<b>MISSION STRONG</b><br />
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Fr. Jeff Harrison, S.J., has been a dear friend ever since we joined the Jesuits in 1975 (I left, he stayed!), so I was thrilled to my soul when he nominated my little efforts here in Honduras for funds from “Mission Week,” an annual event at Regis Jesuit High School in Denver, CO, where Jeff is stationed. You know what, I started praying from that day that hearts would be touched and that our gratitude down here would be felt by all.<br />
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The prayers seemed to help. Not only was the very iffy Colorado weather lovely all week—with a “competition” or event scheduled outside each day—but the kids raised lots to share with us lucky recipients.<br />
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When the check arrived, I had some projects already in mind. Some money went to a couple very poor families to get a roof over their head. Cristian had been working from the ground up to make a little house for his wife and three-year-old daughter, digging the adobe bricks himself, asking help from friends to get the walls up, including the same “architect” that helped build my house, Jesus Martinez, and Nelo, who drinks a bit, but Cristian wasn’t paying him, so you can’t find fault with that. Anytime I’d visit, they’d be covered with mud from head to foot, and I’d think, “Hang on, guys, we’re gonna get you some help!”<br />
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The other family is Juancito and Minga, who just needed to add a room to their house for a couple grandkids, Esau and Patricia, that they are raising. They just asked for a little help to top the thing off. “Poor” doesn’t mean lazy; Juancito, who’s as frail as a reed, had been night-watchman at the school; and Minga cleaned the rooms after classes. After a month, it became obvious they wouldn’t get paid. It’s a vicious cycle, you might say. Juancito's and Minga’s pay was supposed to be collected from the families of the students. Hello? A lot of families can’t get their kid a pencil! You think the “system” is going to generate some kind of economy?<br />
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Also with the prospect of the Mission Week money, I promised Pablo a new bed, two in fact, once we could be sure his father Leon wouldn’t sell them for booze! Years ago, I gave the family a couple simple roll-away beds that are now in pieces. Pablo, then known as Pablito, and his brother Chepito (who goes by Jose now) are my godsons, their mom Irene, and Leon, who was in jail most of the time when I first moved here in 2003. They were my Chemos before Chemo. These beds are solid pine; well, not solid, you strap them up with ‘cabuya,’ a thick twine, and top it off with a sponge mattress—and a nice blanket and a couple foam pillows. Thanks to Regis, no expense was spared! (Actual cost, about $60.) Only two beds? Well, Chepito (Jose) has been working in the mountain town of Lajas for the past two years; we barely have any contact anymore. He is the artist, some of you will remember who proudly display his exquisite drawings.<br />
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As I told Regis in my “application,” there are continuing expenses as well that Mission Week would greatly help. Maricela and her mother Erlinda are both diabetics, with appointments every three months in Progreso; Maricela’s little daughter Marite has liver problems and she needs to go to Tegucigalpa every few months. Meanwhile, Erlinda is waiting for an operation for womanly reasons and goes to San Pedro Sula every few months pursuing that “dream.” I give them 2000 Lempiras (= $100) each time for their travel, medicine, etc. Just today, when Erlinda invited me over for some ‘mantuca,’ made from new corn, she said, “Really, Miguel, I think without your help, Maricela and I might not even be alive,” and she ticked off about 8 other friends and neighbors who had met early deaths from their diabetes, basically untreated for lack of resources. I knew them all; I went to their funerals.<br />
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Another recurring gift boosted by Mission Week is a little “allowance” for Chemo’s cousins who are going to school. Education is often not a priority when the parents are illiterate; it’s a poverty that, as a former teacher, I find especially sad. I give each one 20 Lempiras a day, which seems “extravagant” in some eyes, but it’s only about 1 dollar, enough for a couple little snacks. There are 6 cousins in 3 households, and I usually include a few random kids nearby. One of the cousins has already quit, Julita. Way too often, a girl drops out: what do you need an education for if you’re gonna make tortillas and babies the rest of your life? Boys drop out for their own reasons: they don’t like school. Chemo, you may remember, never went to school till I took him in at age 13, at which point he started first grade!<br />
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There are any number of other “spots” where Mission Week can fill in the gaps. Such as the triple birthday we just celebrated: Marcos, 31; his son (with wife Dania) Elio, 1; and Miriam, 11. These are Chemo-cousins, too. I kept joking that a one-year-old has no idea what a birthday is, but when Elio grabbed a handful of icing off the cake as soon as he saw it, it was like Helen Keller discovering “Water.” HE KNOWS! We added a little neighbor, Marvin, to the mix, since he does not know how old he is or when his birthday is: “Marvin, this is your day, too!” The party featured one of Carlota’s grand cakes. She is the premier baker in the area, but it’s a little tricky to arrive with the cake intact after a wild ride from Jacagua back to Las Vegas in a moto-taxi!<br />
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On the way back to my house after the party, another “Mission,” some cash for Paolo, suffering from heart problems and a “hernia” in his backbone. He already missed one appointment at the Yoro Hospital because he had no money for the bus or the X-rays and tests the doctor needs. Paolo and I go way back; he was just reminiscing about my early days here with Padre Patricio when Paolo was a kid himself.<br />
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Then there’s Juan Carlos, shot in the shoulder a year ago by a robber aiming at his boss. The bullet is still in there and has moved around enough that it’s exerting pressure right on his spine, causing agonizing pain. I’m going to see about helping him get some X-rays at Yoro Hospital, and maybe an operation, which could relieve the problem, finally extracting the bullet, or…God knows!<br />
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And a hundred other needs and good works, all urgent. Suffice it to say, “Mission Week” made a huge difference here. If you can get up some cash by, say, shaving your beard, let ‘er rip!<br />
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The Legion of Mary celebrates the month of May with the custom of “las flores,” when kids bring flowers each day to the Virgin Mary. This year, we added the little ceremony to the end Sunday Mass as well, so the whole congregation could participate. A couple women would bring big baskets of flowers, so there’d be plenty for everyone. For a moment, we were all children!<br />
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Chemo and I, with his cousin Dionis tagging along, went to Tegucigalpa for the latest Brigada. Like last time, we saw a young woman crying and sobbing when we arrived, but this time it was with uncontained joy, as they accepted her tiny baby for emergency open-heart surgery (“I came from so far!”) on the very last day of operations. Ron Roll and Alba, the ones in charge, are so good; and of course they were happy to see Chemo. When preparations began for a farewell lunch for the staff, a couple nurses were struggling to carry some kind of serving table up two flights of stairs. I quickly volunteered Chemo and Dionis for the task! We ducked out before the awkward question of whether they’d invite us or not could come up. <br />
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Chikungunya—a malaria on steroids—continues to ravage the population. And its effects are lasting. It attacks the joints; my wrists, my ankles, my knees, are as weak as paper. The pain! you’d swear the bones were broken. I can barely wring out the wash; and climbing up to the roof to hang the clothes on line (or climbing down!) is torture; you can imagine going up to the church (or down!). Just pulling on my sneakers in the morning is a major operation, as is the simple act of sitting down in a chair: every “muscle” is on fire. Standing up again—forget about it. I try to plan my day avoiding any “articulation”! I don’t know if the feebleness is permanent, or just for the rest of my life, but we’re all waiting for a “cure”!<br />
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But you know, with your love and care, I could climb to the Moon!<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-75846726492182160702015-05-02T11:19:00.004-05:002015-05-02T11:19:40.916-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2015ESTA ES SU CASA—MAY 2015<br />
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FULL<br />
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The month of April began in Holy Week, and thanks to Padre Francisco, a big jolly priest from El Salvador, it was the fullest experience we’ve ever had. I am sure that this was the first time in history that Las Vegas had its own “resident” priest for the whole week. He and a young seminarian named Israel, from Morazan, had both been invited by our pastor Padre Chepito, and they stayed in my house! Thank God the water and electricity was working all week.<br />
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Services were wall to wall. After a couple days, it struck me who Padre Francisco reminded me of: Captain Kangaroo! Oh, back in the day, we grew up with this lovely creation of actor Bob Keeshan. Sometimes, if I felt a little “sick,” you know, I’d plop myself on the couch and start watching the show before my mother could change her mind about keeping me home for the day.<br />
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And like the Captain, Padre Francisco had his bag of tricks. He did several things we’d never seen before. For example, in the Washing of the Feet on Holy Thursday, he washed one person’s feet, who washed the next person’s feet, etc., etc. That we had seen, but then he invited couples, or brothers and sisters, or parents and children to come up and wash each other’s feet. I could see what was coming; he looked over at me, “Michael! [he didn’t like “Miguel”] Whose feet will you wash?” I had already noticed Guillermina, the sweetest, humblest person in town, sitting at the end of nearby pew, so I approached her, invited her, took her by the hand up to the altar, and washed her feet. A few tears were shed.<br />
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Another innovation after the Mass, the “Procession of the 4 Tribunales,” the four “trials” of Jesus before Annas, Caiphas, Herod, and Pilate. Little “stations” had been set up throughout the town; we sang our way from one to the other with Chauco as the bound and blindfolded Jesus, and then a Gospel reading and a commentary and prayer. Believe me, no one in Las Vegas could doubt that this was Holy Week, not just Spring Break! When we finally returned to the church after an hour or more, Chauco said, “I was amazed! When I took the blindfold off, the church was full! I couldn’t believe everybody made the whole circuit!”<br />
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Good Friday—besides a three-hour Stations of the Cross, with Cristian as Jesus in the sweltering heat, and the liturgy in the morning—Francisco planned another ceremony that I for one was sure would not work, the “Procession of Silence,” at nightfall, where we would carry “Jesus,” a crucifix, that is, to the cemetery. I thought folks would be scared of “ghosts”! But no, once we arrived—a big crowd, yes—Padre Francisco offered just a brief prayer, then invited everyone to visit the graves of their loved ones. With the full Passover Moon shining, it was nearly as bright as day; folks loved it!<br />
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Holy Saturday / The Easter Vigil is the biggest liturgy of the year, and Padre Francisco had a plan that really should be standard practice throughout the world! First, he moved the altar out into the aisle and arranged the pews around it, leaving a big open space behind. That’s where he had all the kids gather. After 11 long Biblical readings, including responses and songs, covering the whole history from Genesis to Jesus, he said, “OK, now we take a break!” We had been told to bring sodas, juices, rolls, snacks, whatever, and a table laden with all these goodies was ready. “Kids first!” They lined up so politely, and everyone was served. Afterwards, most of the kids went home, you see, bedtime! And the rest of us were fortified for the other “half” of the Mass.<br />
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Several people literally interrupted Francisco’s sermons to praise him: “You speak truth, Padre! You don’t mince words, we’ve never heard anyone like this before!” I don’t know that he was breaking any ground theologically, but his enthusiasm, his clarity, his unflagging sense of humor, above all, his applications to daily life, indeed set him apart. Maybe he had received some of Archbishop Oscar Romero’s spirit when the future saint confirmed him as a youngster. In every Mass, he’d invite someone to give their own “testimony” to the love of God, starting with Anibal, a prime spokesman for Alcoholics Anonymous. (In our little town, no one is “anonymous”; in fact, most members like to show themselves as an example of what A.A. can do for you.) I guess, ultimately, he reminded us of POPE Francisco!<br />
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We spent the rest of the month traveling, two full cycles of Morazan, Progreso, Tegucigalpa. April is the hottest, deadest time of year, but it seemed to make sense at the time: Morazan, where both Fermin and Maria were recovering from chikungunya; Progreso for Nangui’s knee operation and his team’s last home game (which they won! with an earnest mix of scrubs, their first victory in a month); and Tegus for the birthday of Chemo’s brother Markitos.<br />
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When Chemo saw that his very most favorite singer, Romeo Santos, was giving a concert in Tegucigalpa, well, we had to go. Romeo is “The King of Bachata,” a more romantic and appealing rhythm than reggaeton, or rap. It became a family affair, since Markitos, his mother-in-law Dora, and his wife Yessica would be selling a popular snack, French Fries topped with a special sauce and a sausage, at a stand just outside the stadium. So we all gathered there, to chat and visit, and round up customers, till it was time to go in, 6:30 p.m.<br />
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A “crush” at the entrance turned out to be a trap; I was pickpocketed of about 1000 Lempiras, which I had been saving for a birthday present for Markitos. (I don’t why I didn’t give it to him right away!) Fortunately, I had told Chemo we’re not taking any cell phones, any wallets, any credit cards, any cameras. Fortunately, too, they didn’t get the tickets, which were in the OTHER pocket. Fortunately, I had hidden some money in my socks—I should have hidden ALL of it! OK, so I’m shaken and angered and discombobulated by the theft, and I top it off by tripping over my own feet and falling headlong on the pavement. Chemo helped me up, he was probably more alarmed than I was. I noticed immediately that my knee hurt, almost doubling under my own weight. “Oh, great, now I’m gonna need the same operation Nangui got!”<br />
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Romeo did not appear till 10:00 p.m., and by 11:00 even Chemo said, “Let’s go—it’s dangerous here.” Bless you, Chemo! We went outside and sat again for a while with Dora and Yessica and Markitos. When we told them about the robbery and that all we had left was cabfare, Dora sprang into action, going from cab to cab to find us the cheapest fare.<br />
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But I was sick! It had all the marks of chikungunya, fever, aches all over, no appetite, just dead in the water. Now, can you get chikungunya from a pickpocket? or from falling on your face? I may be making medical history here! At early Mass the next morning in the Cathedral, I just sat like a lump, trying to pray, till I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Miguel, how are you?” Is this an angel? Well, it was Regina, Elio and Mema’s daughter, undoing the meanness of the pickpocket’s grabs. She invited me to a little breakfast with her daughter. (Chemo was still fast asleep back in the hotel.) Gracias!<br />
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By the time we limped home to Las Vegas, we had already heard of the murder of the Chief of Police in Victoria, apparently because he was investigating some cattle rustlers. They caught three “suspects,” and Chemo and I felt a chill when we recognized one of them as someone who had brought a boombox to Elvis for repair. So now who wants the job?<br />
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All I wanted was my bed and a fan. But the electricity was off—someone knocked down a pole in Yorito or somewhere. I was so far gone, I didn’t even care. I slept in my street clothes about 15 hours, and finally took the advice I’d been giving everyone else: Gatorade! At “room temperature,” it was hardly refreshing, but it got me back on my feet.<br />
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Thank YOU for your ever gentle hand!<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-15390443540159891192015-04-01T11:17:00.000-05:002015-04-01T11:17:02.758-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2015<b>ESTA ES SU CASA—APRIL 2015</b><br />
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<b>CHIKUNGUNYA</b><br />
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The entire league could not bring down Nangui, star of the Honduras-Progreso soccer team, but a tiny bug—a mosquito!—knocked him for a loop! It’s called Chikungunya, “Chiko” for short, and it’s already killed not a few Hondurans. An especially virulent form of malaria, it has afflicted at least 18,000 here. There is, of course, no cure. Nangui fell sick on the team bus to a game in La Ceiba, 4 hours from Progreso, a surge of fever, aches all over, every joint clenched, practically hallucinating, scared everyone, especially his mom Santa and family in the bus behind. When Santa called me, it sounded as if Nangui would be hospitalized, but by the end of the game, after some Tylenol and Gatorade at a clinic, he insisted on getting back on the bus. His sister Karla tweeted a photo: looked like a death mask!<br />
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They lost the game, of course, but the coach was more concerned about Nangui. “You know, we missed our ‘jugador emblematico’ tonight due to sickness.” Our emblematic player! I haven’t heard such evocative language since Northrop Frye wrote about “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight”!<br />
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Even in Progreso, Nangui just went home. It took a call from his coach, and a personal escort of a couple teammates to finally get him to a clinic, where he stayed only long enough for blood tests and about a gallon of ‘suero’ (intravenous drip).<br />
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I really thought, if not his life, certainly his career was threatened. I snapped one of the sweetest pix I’ve ever taken, Nangui’s tiny son Ivan, in his mother Martha’s arms, soothing his daddy’s distempered brow. But his natural resilience kicked in; eventually, he was back, “ready” to play.<br />
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Meanwhile, the team was in a tailspin, falling into the basement of the standings, including their first home loss in 49 games. But the fans didn’t give up. We went to a game in San Pedro, hottest day of the year (a weekly occurrence in Honduras!), but we loved it! a 3-0 trouncing of Marathon on their home field, and with their own player! Rene Moncada, recently acquired by Honduras-Progreso in Nangui’s absence, responsible for all three goals. A survey in the sports paper El Diez before the game had only 1 of 17 staff writers predicting a Honduras-Progreso win. But apparently the real highlight was a FACEBOOK photo of me in my loose red dewcap; it got more “Likes” than anything I’ve ever posted. I guess they were Likes…<br />
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We went to Tegucigalpa to visit the Brigada for Chemo’s annual check-up, but as soon as we arrived, making our way into the back corridors of the hospital, something was wrong. A woman huddled over a little girl lying on a gurney. I thought (I hoped!) a mother was comforting her daughter before—or after—surgery. But the child was not moving, at all. I drew Chemo away. The child was really the same size as Chemo when he got his open-heart surgery. That close! When they brought in a little coffin, that was that. Ron Roll, organizer of the Brigadas, just looked at us. “This is a bad time.” Everyone was in tears, Ron, his wife Alba, the surgeon, nurses, and other volunteers from the States who had come to save these children, but some kids are just too sick; they can’t make it, with or without surgery.<br />
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Chemo only said, “Let’s go.” I tried to say something, through my own streaming tears. “Chemo, God is love, we know that, we know that even when such terrible things happen, we know God is good, if your life is saved by the doctors or if you go first to eternal life, well, we can still pray, for her parents, for her family, for the doctors and nurses, for Ron and Alba, never to give up, never to stop caring for the children!”<br />
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In a variation on “If you build it, they will come,” we got, in the case of Chemo’s brother Markitos, who had mixed cement for eight months for an enormous store about 3 football fields long, the Larach Brothers Hardware Store in Tegucigalpa, on the day of the Grand Opening, “If you build it, you cannot come.” Every dignitary from the President on down was invited to the gala event, but the actual workers got no invitations. If they had not done their job well, there’d be no store to open! (I remember an anniversary of the Gateway Arch, with the construction workers in the front row.)<br />
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Father’s Day in Honduras is celebrated on March 19, the Feast of St. Joseph. The school in Las Vegas did a poignant and even brave celebration, featuring at least 5 skits or songs pleading with fathers to be responsible, especially not to destroy their families with alcohol. Somehow, even second graders had us in tears.<br />
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On our visit to Progreso to see Nangui, we invited some of the family to Teatro la Fragua to see “El Asesinato de Jesus,” their signature work—emblematic, you might say—the most performed over their 35 years of existence. It places the death of Jesus in the context of the torturous politics of Honduras, the poor who suffer by the privileged.<br />
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Flush with Wi-Fi at our hotel in Progreso, I crossed my fingers and downloaded Apple’s latest Operating System “Yosemite.” Comments I had seen made it sound more like “Armageddon,” but it came through fine, except for one thing. My computer was now too advanced for my little Tigo modem that I used for Internet in Las Vegas. Alternating between despair, and excitement at the prospect of huge swaths of free time, I glanced at Chemo absorbed in his Samsung Galaxy, and I realized, “I need a smartphone!” I got the cheapest one I could find, about $50, and it works fine, though of course it’s way “smarter” than I am!<br />
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Loading Yosemite, I was especially anxious about iPhoto, since that’s what I needed most, but it also had the most complaints among the Apple comments. It seemed fine, but as an experiment, I quickly assembled a little photo book of kids’ pictures; after a couple false starts, Apple processed the order and the book is at Teresa’s house right now, if you happen to stop by. I think I’ll do a couple more like this, before I come up in September instead of one big book as I usually do.<br />
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Actually, I might like to come a little sooner. The Honduran national team just qualified for the Gold Cup tourney, so they’ll be playing in such cities as Dallas, Boston, and on July 13 Kansas City! If Nangui makes it back on to the team, you could have a real treat to see him in action!<br />
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Thanks for letting me play on YOUR team!<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-39951449111701665332015-03-02T00:02:00.008-06:002015-03-02T00:02:57.032-06:00ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2015<div>
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<b>BACK TO SCHOOLED!</b></div>
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While you are counting snow days up there, we are just getting started! The school year officially began February 1. Fascinating to see hundreds of kids in their uniforms lining up outside the gate, boys to the right, girls to the left, as Profe Oracio, who I’ve known since he was in kindergarten himself, checks everyone in, suggesting a haircut here, a shoeshine there, and calling the stragglers to hurry up! </div>
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While we don’t have snow days, we do have big gaps as the year begins before everyone’s back from picking coffee in the mountains. Till at least March, things move about half-speed. But what can you do? </div>
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Chemo’s cousins were some of the late arrivals, but I was so thrilled to see them finally dressed and ready with their little backpacks and notebooks that I dared not criticize or cast blame. Probably only about half of them will actually stick to it for the year; there’s no “Special Education” here for kids who are really handicapped in focusing on study, and it doesn’t help when the adults in your house are illiterate themselves. But for now, I’m giving each one 20 Lempiras, as my encouragement to keep a-goin’! And I try to help with homework, which is sometimes such busywork I have to hold my tongue. (“Write 10 sentences with verbs in the past, present, and future,” for little Marcos, who still can’t tell one letter from another!)</div>
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Don’t even ask about Chemo! The chance I dreamed of enrolling him in computer classes vanished when Wilfredo invited me to join a meeting of Caritas in his “office,” and it turned out to be the little building that WAS the computer school, now an open space with about 4 busted machines just sitting there along the wall. Caritas funds projects for the poor, but apparently computer classes ain’t one of them! </div>
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On the other hand, we have every level of education except university: kindergarten, “escuela” (primary school, grades 1-6), “colegio” (our version of high school, grades 7-9), then a 3-year “bachillerato” or “carrera”, when you specialize in some study, like Arts and Letters, Business, etc.; in Las Vegas the only “carrera” available is “Agriculture,” but that’s still a pretty good lineup for a “village”!</div>
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Nangui’s team Honduras-Progreso is learning some hard lessons of its own. They haven’t won a game in a month; maybe they’re stretched a little thin, since several teammates are playing in three “tournaments” at once. There’s the national team, hoping for a World Cup berth; but that team has already lost twice to Venezuela, in “friendlies,” to be sure, but still Coach Jorge Pinto is not pleased. We all went to the “home” game in San Pedro Sula, but Nangui did not even get in the game, although the crowd, impatient and frustrated, was calling for him. The next game was IN Venezuela, and I just couldn’t get my head around it. Nangui, never farther away from home than Tegucigalpa, suddenly is on a plane to Venezuela. I showed everyone who would listen where Venezuela is, on a map on my wall, but I was probably the most amazed of anyone. And he did get in that game—for the last ten minutes, what’s up with THAT? I decided the coach knows his value and is saving Nangui for a “real” game, like a secret weapon. But even ten minutes was enough to earn Nangui a head-shave, as a kind of initiation by his teammates. </div>
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The third cycle of games is something called the “Copa Presidente.” I never heard of it, and Fermin explained why. “It’s never been done before; it’s a toy for the idiot President we’ve got,” Juan Orlando Hernandez. Basically, it’s contests between the League teams and more local, rag-tag teams, with predictable results when the little teams embarrass the big teams. Nangui’s team is actually leading the standings with a couple victories, I don’t even know over who--or whom. </div>
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Winning or not, Nangui is a star. The daily sports paper El Diez did a two-page spread on his “private life,” featuring the “baleada” connection along with his wife Martha, and of course the two little twins. His dream, he says, is to buy his mother a new house. </div>
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But it may be a falling star. After the most recent loss, Coach Wilmer resigned. Actually, it was a noble move, to draw the criticism to himself rather than the players. “Three losses in a row, something has to change; instead of cutting 28 [players], just cut one—and that’s me.” </div>
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Chemo became a star himself, when Luis Emildo invited him to join his local cable show in Las Vegas, “Pura Vida.” Chemo’s a natural!</div>
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At least as famous as Nangui--among my readers anyway--is Beto, the blind young man in La Catorce. Two weeks beforehand, he had quietly asked me if he should invite folks to his...birthday party! “Absolutely!” I said, and I ordered one of Carlota’s enormous cakes for Sunday, September 15. After Mass, we crowded some kids in Las Vegas into a moto-taxi and headed for La Catorce, stopping at Jacagua to get the cake. Beto is 32, but still a child in his delight of his special day. </div>
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The next week, Chemo and I went to Morazan for the birthday of Fermin’s wife Maria, who turned 47, another idea I can barely get my head around. I’ve known her--and Fermin--since they were teenagers, most of their life and over half of mine. Of course, I was so dense, I didn’t realize the party was to be a surprise. Her birthday was Thursday, and everyone was telling her they’d wait till the weekend to celebrate. We arrived Wednesday, and when her daughter Arlin said to me, “I’m going to the store,” I just looked at her. “Miguel, let’s go to the store--TOGETHER!” Then I got it. And Arlin prepared a feast! Three big pans of lasagna, fat roasted chickens, broccoli with a cheese sauce, for starters. She and her husband Freddy showed up in their pickup loaded with food and drink just when Maria was thinking, “What’s going on?” </div>
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When Nangui’s family invited us to join them on an “excursion” to Tela, the beach that was the only mainland in America that Columbus actually touched (1502, his fourth voyage), I had to say yes, because Chemo had never seen the ocean. He wasn’t sure what to think at first, but each time he took another dip, he went a little farther into the waves. Soon he was begging to take a motorboat ride with his friends; some big guys were taking folks out for about a ten-minute run, surging over the waves and nearly turning the craft over! When they stopped dead at their farthest point away, I thought they were stranded. “We were looking at the sharks,” Chemo explained. Oh, yeah, the sharks! I should have thought of that! </div>
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Stay warm and stay dry!</div>
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Love, Miguel</div>
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MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-6564498806559870792015-01-31T23:34:00.000-06:002015-01-31T23:34:28.554-06:00ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2015<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I felt a twinge of deja vu as we walked past Ramon Rosa park in El Progreso after Nangui’s team Honduras-Progreso beat Marathon 3-1. “That’s where it all began, all those years ago.” And then it hit me, I’m with the same family that began it! Wow! Thirty-seven years collapsed into a single moment. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">You see, my first time in Honduras, in 1977, I was getting my shoes shined twice a day by the ‘lustrabotas’ in the park, just to practice my Spanish. Julio, about 10 years old, seemed to be the leader of the little squad. Through him, I met his family, including his sister Santa, who eventually grew up to become the mother of Jorge, nicknamed Nangui, now at 28 years old the star of the Honduras-Progreso soccer team, taking the league by storm in their first year of professional play. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I guess sort of the way J.K. Rowling says all 7 installments of “Harry Potter” hit her all at once, the whole history flashed before my eyes in an instant, including Julio’s violent death in the streets of El Progreso in 1989, just when his future looked brightest. Overcome, I grasped Santa’s hand. She looked at me, like, What the heck is the matter with you! “I was just thinking.” Then we proceeded to the corner where Nangui’s wife Marta has a stand, about 15 of us family and friends, for baleadas, to celebrate the victory that solidified Honduras-Progreso’s first-place status. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This was our second game in a week. We went to San Pedro Sula the previous Saturday for the first game of the new season, facing a strong team named “Vida.” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The evening in San Pedro was not promising. The old stadium looked more like a latrine than a sports facility. A rainy day had left the unkempt field so muddy that after a while you could barely tell which team was which. Huddled in the mist and cold, we were a mere handful of fans, basically just the 40 or so that could fit on a bus from Progreso provided by the team. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But the team came from behind for a thrilling 3-2 victory. Calling a play, even our head coach Wilmer Cruz slipped in the mud, and was helped up by a Vida player, a nice gesture. And among the small crowd was the most important observer of all, Jorge Pinto, the new head coach of the ‘seleccion,’ the Honduras national team that hopes to compete in the next World Cup, Russia 2018. Sort of like Whitey Herzog, from what I can tell, he likes players that really hustle! So naturally his attention was drawn to Nangui, who, according to La Prensa, is “un escurridizo para los defensores,” because he speeds through defenders like a buzz saw! Pinto came to their next game, too, the one we attended in El Progreso, where the overflow crowd of almost 2000 had to impress him too. The next day, Nangui was on Pinto’s list of about 30 players to try out for the ‘seleccion.’ And after three days of drills, Nangui made the team!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I can’t assume you are a big fan of international soccer, but you might get a chance to see Nangui in action when the ‘seleccion’ plays in the United States in the coming months. I’ll let you know the details as soon as I hear. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">What more can I say? Sorry for gushing like this, but it’s just so phenomenal. From dirt poor to world class. Nangui grew up in a house the very definition of a SHACK. His mom Santa and dad Jorge both swear like sailors, but somehow Nangui remains soft-spoken and a gentleman, engaging the media like a pro. After a game, when he’s gone full-tilt and thrown himself around like rag doll, he cleans up and joins us at his wife Marta’s stand for baleadas. I was about to say, “win or lose,” but Honduras-Progreso has never lost at home! Then he might come back to the house for awhile, while I snap a few pictures. My favorite image of him is, later, just walking down the street into the dark, alone, to re-join Marta to help pack up her stand for the night. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In a special moment, Honduras-Progreso visited Hogar Suyapa, a beautiful children’s home/orphanage that directed me back in 2007 to a very special person, Judge Wendy Padilla, to arrange my adoption of Chemo. You know what, why don’t you just go ahead and “Like” the team!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/Club.Deportivo.Honduras.De.El.Progreso">https://www.facebook.com/Club.Deportivo.Honduras.De.El.Progreso</a></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In between Nangui’s games, Chemo and I “vacationed” in Morazan for a week with Fermin and Maria and the kids. We try to do this every January, before school starts again in February. Fermin showed me the new light he had just installed in the front room, a fat fluorescent globe replacing a tiny neon tube that had lasted since they moved into the house 20 years ago! It looked somehow...strange. Indeed, the next morning, when we flipped it on, it short-circuited! Fermin spent the whole day in the crawlspace between the ceiling and the roof sorting things out. I was scared to death he’d electrocute himself, so I started praying a very quiet rosary. Maria, more practical, went to get some help from the local utility, ENEE. Two guys showed up--with tools!--and climbed the nearest pole and cut and twisted and connected wires till power was restored. Fermin emerged covered with 20 years of dirt, dust, and grime from head to foot, smeared with sweat. When I lifted my camera, he said, “No, Miguel! No pictures! We don’t want to remember this!” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But we did have some experiences worth remembering, including Eduard’s 21st birthday. We splurged at the Supermercado Marquez to get all the fixin’s for a big barbecue, including three kinds of meat: chorizo, chicken, and strips of beef. Maria, with help from her sister Arlin and sister-in-law Concha, made a big batch of chimol (a delicious relish) and other side dishes; and we got everyone’s favorite party cake, “tres leches.” I asked Eduard if he was inviting any friends. “Just one,” he smiled. His girlfriend, Evelin! I had to pay for everything, not because I HAD to, but because I wanted to, for all their goodness to me and Chemo. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And Chemo and I “had” to go to Tegucigalpa for Mema’s birthday! We took her and Elio to Mirawa for lunch, the best Chinese in the city, along with their son Elio, Jr., and two grandsons. I love seeing Mema’s smile! No one is more grateful for even the smallest gift. The “official” birthday party in the evening started with Mass at the little church by their house, where Padre Ovidio, a lifelong friend, was also overcome with gratitude for Mema’s wonderful life. Then the feast, and the dancing, and the singing. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Birthdays are so precious, not least because not everybody gets one. Yessica, the girlfriend of Chemo’s younger brother Markitos, lost their baby in a miscarriage, about 3 months gestation. Markitos was not home with her when it happened; he was visiting his and Chemo’s mother Rufina, at the other end of the country in Santa Barbara. But Yessica’s mother was there to help her through the experience. Markitos arrived the next day, and Chemo and I the day after that. Cautiously, I invited them to Pizza Hut, as usual; and it seemed to help restore some hope and some smiles. And with a million and a half “pilgrims” expected to visit the Basilica very close to Yessica and Markitos’ barrio in Tegucigalpa for the biggest feast of the year, Our Lady of Suyapa, they should be able to get some needed income when Yessica’s mother sets up a food booth and Markitos runs odd jobs. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We almost thought maybe Beto of La Catorce, the blind young man we love and enjoy, would not make it to his next birthday when we heard he was hit by a motorcycle. It was dark (not a good time to be on the road, but Beto explains he was doing a favor for a friend); the motorcycle was “off,” so Beto couldn’t hear it (this I don’t get); and the “driver” was a TEACHER in the La Catorce school and he was DRUNK! (OK, THAT explains it). Fortunately, Beto got only a cut on his forehead (4 stitches) and other scrapes and bruises but nothing too serious. Can you imagine! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Well, I can imagine YOU have things to do, so let me sign off right now!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But not without thanking you again for your lovingkindness,</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Miguel</span></div>
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MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-62358963529655781402015-01-05T10:07:00.002-06:002015-01-05T10:07:55.743-06:00ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>A THRILL OF HOPE</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If you’re pressed for time, skip this and read Mac McAuliffe’s blog. He’s offering a series of sketches from his visit here last October. I wish I could do it half as well!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://macmca55.wordpress.com/">http://macmca55.wordpress.com</a></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">NOTE: COMING TO YOU ‘LIVE’ FROM THE KIWI PASTELERIA IN YORO! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Internet in Las Vegas is practically dead. Most of the time, I can’t read your e-mails, I can’t do FACEBOOK, I can’t see the score of a game. But, while looking for birthday cakes (see details below!), I found a little bakery in Yoro (2 hours by bus) that has Free Wireless! That’s where I am right now!!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Christmas day is usually pretty quiet around here. All the festivities--the tamales, the soccer finals, the big Mass, as well as the binge drinking--happen on Christmas Eve. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But this Christmas was even more still than usual, as we mourned the passing of Richard Cruz, 75. Frail, yes, but no one expected such a rapid descent in a single day, including his son Dennis, who had just arrived with his wife and their two little girls from San Pedro Sula a couple days before. And yet the timing was perfect, if one can say such a thing, </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So early Christmas morning, I went over to the house, at the farthest end of town, where the road disappears into the woods, prepared to spend the day. Richard’s wife Melania was steady as she greeted friends and neighbors. Dennis was on the phone rounding up volunteers to “open” the grave. Four other brothers were already on their way from San Pedro, due to arrive about noon. Lola, the only daughter, was organizing a group of women serving coffee and rolls. Cristina Castro led the praying of a Rosary with her own special commentary on its “mysteries.” She reminded everyone that Richard had been a tailor; as a former teacher, she had seen his fine work in hundreds of her students’ uniforms (this included Pablito and Chepito when I got them into school years ago); he charged so little, anyone could afford him. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Then Richard’s father arrived! Chaguito, 108 years old, the same Chaguito who buried another elderly son back in February. Now as then, Chaguito cried more than anyone, shaking all over. They brought him in and got the most comfortable chair for him, lined with pillows, where he sat for at least three hours. Imagine! For a father, your son is always your baby, no matter how old he is. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I get all sentimental, I know, but it seemed somehow lovely that, as the angels called the shepherds to find the Baby Jesus in Bethlehem, so Richard, a man so humble he would apologize even for taking your measurements, was called to the same Christmas scene in heaven. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There are other events, of course, that don’t need a twist of irony to redeem them. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Birthday parties, for example!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Mariana Teresa (“Marite”) turned 4 on December 2; she always gets a cake and party, we make sure of that! since her mother Maricela named her for my sister Mary Anne. Chemo’s little cousin Daguito likewise celebrated number 4, on December 22, with his first cake ever. Usually, the family has already gone off to pick coffee in El Transito, where in fact Daguito was born. Also enjoying her first cake, Daguito’s grandmother Natalia. About time! She turned 65 on December 1. She’s Chemo’s grandmother, too, and I call her “mommy” every morning when I ask for a blessing, so I don’t know what took me so long! And Ery turned 27 on December 30; with Down Syndrome, it’s a real milestone. His best gift was the arrival of his sister Angelita from Mexico, where she has been preparing for several years now for a legal entry into the United States--as a Mexican citizen! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">One birthday passed without a cake, Chemo’s late father Juan de la Cruz, born December 1, 1944. He died years before Chemo came into my life, so the only picture we have of him is his national I.D. card, issued when he was 18; the photo is the exact image of his other son Markitos, who is 18 now himself. In a quick visit to Tegucigalpa to renew my own Honduran I.D., we “celebrated” Markitos’ girlfriend Yessica’s pregnancy, with an August due date. Oh boy! I am just so grateful that Chemo still mostly loves soccer and music! And clothes. I had Ostin, the tailor who had tried to interest Chemo in the profession, make Chemo a nice pair of pants for Christmas. And do you know, he did not even charge me! Such a lovely present! I tried to return the favor at least a little with a nice picture of him holding his new baby boy. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Daguito’s family finally packed up and headed to El Transito December 27. The other half of Chemo’s family, Alba and Santos and their kids, had already gone off December 13. The whole town of Las Vegas is depleted in these days, though for Christmas at least an equal number of folks come back for the holidays. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Including Padre Manuel from El Salvador. I really thought we’d never see him again when he left in August, entrusting the parish to Padre Chepito, our very first “native-born” priest from our own mountains. Manuel was genuinely thrilled you could see, to be celebrating Christmas “Midnight” Mass (6:00 p.m), and we were excited to see him. You know, there’s sort of an undercurrent of criticism making the rounds, that Padre Chepito is just not measuring up, specifically his preaching. One person said, “Chepito me duerme” (“Chepito puts me to sleep.”). Cristina Castro, who is a fiery preacher herself when she gets going, even when she’s talking about something as simple as the Rosary, said much the same thing: “I like some fire in a sermon; Chepito is like water.” I don’t know what to say. I love Chepito’s humble, sincere, deliberate “style,” if that’s what we’re calling it. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The whole purpose of the “foreign” missionaries--from Missouri, California, Spain, Canada, or even El Salvador like Padre Manuel--was to build up the “local” church to take care of itself. Now we don’t like the “new wine”? As Jesus himself experienced, Chepito is a “prophet without honor” in his own home town. I usually feel like crying tears of thankfulness just to see this man, against all odds, finding his vocation as a priest in a backward land where I can’t even get Chemo through seventh grade after three tries, in a country where a child dies by violence every 24 hours. He’s our own Cure d’Ars. Who cares what he says! It’s a miracle that he’s here at all! Pope Francis warned in his “Joy of the Gospel” not to look for “star power” in a preacher; just let Jesus come through. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So Padre Chepito did more First Communions, baptisms, weddings, to round out 2014, the blessed work of a pastor. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And then, you know what, on New Year’s Eve, Padre Chepito seemed to come into his own. The church was full to overflowing, and even the drunks who had wandered in were attentive. The music was exquisite, our little choir bolstered by Elvis and Dora’s daughters Lily and Neysey, on break from the university. Chepito’s preaching was the same as always, but somehow tonight it touched a chord; so when he invited another young man, Obed, who will be entering the major seminary in February, to come up and say a few words, Chepito’s own love of his vocation came flowing out. At that point, Cristina Castro came forward and asked for the mike, to praise Chepito! “God must love us very much to have given us this priest!” She had called him “water”; now she was baptizing him! And the whole church burst into applause.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I feel the same way. God must love me--and Chemo and all of us here--very much to have given us your friendship and love. And any donations to the “Birthday Project” would be icing on the cake! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Love, Miguel</span></div>
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MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-26938358220713186802014-12-02T21:48:00.002-06:002014-12-02T21:48:53.318-06:00ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2014<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>THE FORGIVING TREE</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So now it’s up to me, I guess, to be the bearer of good news. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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”!)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Love, Miguel</span></div>
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MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-56404258228059514142014-10-26T10:18:00.000-05:002014-10-26T10:18:39.960-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--MAC McCAULIFFE NOVEMBER 2014<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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!” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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!” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Love, Miguel</span></div>
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MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-43449463882559353442014-10-16T11:11:00.000-05:002014-10-16T11:11:12.532-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--ST. LOUIS 2014<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>THE AGONY AND THE AGAPE</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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!”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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!”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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....</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Love, Miguel</span></div>
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MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-37162025659592295832014-08-28T10:02:00.000-05:002014-08-28T10:02:09.632-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2014<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>HAPPINESS IS THE TRUTH</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So, back to our true purpose, hat tip to Pharrell Williams!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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--?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">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”....</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But, thanks as always for sharing! See you soon!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Love, Miguel</span></div>
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MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-18867044928670331912014-07-28T16:57:00.003-05:002014-07-28T16:57:56.084-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2014 'BORDER CRISIS' edition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2014: THE BORDER CRISIS</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>DOUBLE CROSS</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Remember, I’ll be in St. Louis September 17 to October 15. Will I see you?</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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!) </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">[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....]</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> <a href="http://nyti.ms/1y4Z8ub"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">A Refugee Crisis, Not an Immigration Crisis</span></a></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Love, Miguel</span></div>
MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-69216472970047728812014-07-01T14:55:00.001-05:002014-07-01T14:55:49.689-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2014<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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....</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.)</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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.” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Like you treat me!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Miguel</span></div>
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MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-23099753730373388162014-06-02T15:39:00.000-05:002014-06-02T15:39:10.002-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2014<b>ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2014</b><br />
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<b>A MONTH OF SUNDAYS</b><br />
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<b>I just made reservations for St. Louis, September 17 to October 15, 2014. See you!!</b><br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.”<br />
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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.”<br />
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Then Chemo and I headed back to Morazan.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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....<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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!”<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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:<br />
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Jamás tu amor consienta<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Your love never will allow<br />
Que en este triste mundo<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That in this sad old world<br />
Fiero cual mar profundo<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The fierce waves to overwhelm us<br />
Sufran algún revés.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And we be lost.<br />
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You are my “bucket list”! Thank you for keeping me afloat!<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7291347721809958990.post-59831594838243023912014-04-30T14:01:00.000-05:002014-04-30T14:01:05.376-05:00ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2014<b>ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2014</b><br />
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<b>WALK THE WALK</b><br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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!)<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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!<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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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!)<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Update on Maria as we go to print: the operation was a success, Maria resting comfortably back at home, the recuperation on schedule.<br />
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Love, Miguel<br />
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<br />MIGUELhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08796092791553724145noreply@blogger.com0