Esta es su casa

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2012

2012-01-31T22:16:00.001-06:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2012

Donna Korando of The Beacon has beautifully condensed my recent massive “Letter”:
http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/115673-letter-from-honduras-family-in-december

AT LAST

The buses were still crowded even a week after New Year’s, so the seven hours to Tegucigalpa on Sunday, January 8, stretched into eight, assuming anyone had room to stretch! We were crammed in there like a week-old gym bag. Chemo, 17, Marcos, 15 (Chemo’s “little” brother, still a head taller), Dionis, 14 (their cousin), and I had at least one deadline, to renew my Honduran Residency Visa by January 9, when it would expire. But I knew fun and clothes and food, food, food, were the boys’ real priorities, so once we checked into the hotel, we headed off to the Nova Centro Mall, the site of the “carros chocantes,” the dodge ’em cars. They were running a special, 600 Lempiras worth of rides for 300 Lempiras. I thought, We’ll be here all night! But the boys racked up about ten sessions of bumps and grinds in about an hour and a half. “One more! One more!” they kept crying, but I thought we’d all have concussions if they indulged any further. So, as per our agreement, it was off to 6:00 p.m. Mass at one of Tegucigalpa’s prettiest churches, the Milagrosa, just across the street. It was the feast of the Epiphany, and they had a sort of “native” band for the music with lots of drums and spicy rhythms. I loved it, Chemo liked it, Marcos didn’t really notice, and Dionis hated it. That was more or less the breakdown for the next three days.

After Mass, also as per our custom, we crossed back to the mall to eat at Chile’s. (Our schedule is stricter than the Constitution!) Chemo got his pasta, only available off the Kids Menu; the rest of us got fat, juicy hamburgers. Dionis put his aside after a few bites, so Marcos, the bottomless pit, helped him out. I thought about ordering something else this time, but, like Lennie in “Of Mice and Men,” I like my food “with ketchup,” and lots of it, and the hamburger comes with fries.

The bill was not too, too much, so I thought maybe this trip could be kept within reason, but even as I signed the Visa charge, I knew what awaited us at the hotel. “We’re hungry!” Now, remember we had had a big lunch on the trip when the bus stopped in San Ignacio; we’d just eaten at Chile’s, but, as tight as any conspiracy theory, Dionis’ lack of interest in his hamburger provided the excuse for everyone to eat again, this time plates of fried chicken (with fries!) and at least two sodas apiece. I did not order again, but picked off the boys’ plates, especially Dionis, who abandoned his meal half eaten.

I splurged that night because I was going to leave the boys holed up in the hotel all morning the next day while I renewed my residency. I left them money so they could get breakfast at the mercado nearby, with Angelica, the best “baby-sitter” in the world, riding herd. She sells gum and candy and cigarets and such in front of the hotel and has been my guardian angel for at least 15 years.

My first stop Monday morning, the bank, to request a “constancia,” or statement, that I have exchanged at least one thousand dollars for Lempiras every month. Yearly though it is, the folks at Banhcafe remember me and process the thing in minutes. Then, off to Migración, now a very expensive cab ride away at the far end of the city, by the airport, where the biggest mall in Central America is going up. I had heard about City Mall, but until I saw the acres and acres of raw concrete pillars and floors and towers, still in skeletal form, I could not have imagined it. It’s bigger than our whole town of Las Vegas! Is this a sign of prosperity? Honduras rising? The swelling tide that lifts all boats? No, it’s a giant money laundering of drug profits. Well, that’s just a guess. Next year, we’ll probably be eating at the Food Court, but it’s more depressing than exciting to contemplate how much misery and mayhem have sponsored this monstrosity.

Renewing your visa is a hurry-up-and-wait exercise, in at least four slow lines. But I am careful to thank everyone along the way, for allowing me to stay in their country. And I mean it! I don’t want to take it for granted. I finally got back to the hotel about noon, and the boys were eager for their turn. Off to the Mall Multi-Plaza, the very first mall opened in Honduras back in 1998, remodeled any number of times, but familiar and comfortable as an old shoe. Also the site for the past several years of the most elaborate “nacimiento” or Christmas crib scene, in Tegucigalpa, designed by architect Alejandro Martinez, who’s been doing them since his dear mother died in 1950. In those days, he built them inside his house, visitors following a path from room to room.

Baby Jesus is nice and all, but the boys wanted clothes, shoes, and of course, lunch! Dionis led the way, since he never gets in on these outings, with Marcos right behind, who would be returning to dirt poor subsistence in Tocoa, and that made Chemo an inevitability, and he knew it, playing the game to perfection. But I had an ulterior purpose myself. I told the boys they needed new digs for tomorrow night, Mema’s 63rd birthday party.

Tuesday night we took the longest, most expensive cab ride yet, to a remote gated community called Los Hidalgos, where Elio and Mema sought refuge three years ago after they were chased out of their house and business--a grocery store--by a gang demanding exorbitant “protection” fees and threatening to kill their grandchildren if they did not comply. Since they both thrive on hard work, they have been literally sick without anything productive to occupy their time.

But this night would be different. With contributions from their (grown) children, food was abundant, including four different kinds of meat. I joked that I’ve read Genesis but I didn’t even know there were four kinds of meat! And three birthday cakes. It was so wonderful to see Mema enjoying the gathering, though of course what made her happiest was making sure everyone else was well served. I have not seen the family so happy in years. The boys were pressing for an early exit, so we could get to the dodge ‘em cars one more time, but even they succumbed to the good times, as Mema and Elio and practically everyone else fussed over them and gave them little jobs to do like passing out the cake. At the end, Elio drove us home, while Mema stayed behind with the last guests; with traffic so light and a direct route, we arrived in minutes, but I know Elio was wishing Mema could have gone along.

We got up before dawn to dispatch Marcos to Tocoa on the Mirna Bus, while Chemo, Dionis, and I got the Reyes Bus back to Victoria/Las Vegas. Long trips, both, but we got home about 2 hours before Marcos did. We kept in touch the whole way by cell phone, and finally, after dark, Marcos could report he had crossed the log bridge over the creek by his house, his sister Rosa waiting for him with supper, “and it was still hot,” to quote my favorite line in literature at the end of Maurice Sendak’s “Where the Wild Things Are.”

When we got back, the annual festival had already begun in Victoria, dedicated to the Black Christ, a devotion inspired by a shrine in Esquipulas, Guatemala, that has attracted pilgrims for a century, ever since the “miraculous” crucifix in the church mysteriously turned black. You may remember I talked about the festival observance last August when a big crowd of us at a “cabildo,” or open meeting in Victoria voted to ban the very popular “beer-booths” this year. Guess what? It didn’t take. There were still at least 10 beer vendors, their rusty refrigerators stocked full. Well, our pastor Padre Jaime wasted no time drafting a letter to the mayor reminding him of the commitment to clean up the disorder. Jaime even hinted at “consequences” of breaking the “law,” which we were all told in August was the force of the democratic decision taken at the officially sanctioned “cabildo.” But, you know, when you have to pass a law in a supposedly Christian community to suppress public drunkenness during a week-long celebration of God’s mercy in Christ--I mean, haven’t you lost already?

On the other hand, Las Vegas’ contribution to the vigil on Saturday night--the Seven Last Words of Christ on the Cross--was so well done and so moving that I guess I really believed Jesus: “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.” The drunks are really just a distraction from the sinfulness we all indulge in and choose to excuse or ignore. Each “word” included a short introduction read by Carmen Hernandez, a “dramatization” by the Youth Group, a brief commentary by a delegado, a penitential song from the choir, and it drove home the reality of what Fr. John Kavanaugh of St. Louis University calls the “radical contingency” of our common humanity. Ultimately, we prayed, “O Lord, have mercy on me, the sinner” (Luke 18:13).

The next week, another excursion. Checking last year’s calendar confirmed that Chemo and I had gone on “vacation” with Fermin and Maria’s family in Morazan at this time. We sort of hated to pack up and go again, but we knew it would be worth it. Chemo loves to play with José Miguel, and this is our only chance all year to spend more than just a day or two with them. It’s also a great excuse for everyone to enjoy time together. So one day we went to Los Murillos, driving through at least six branches of the same river, where Fermin and María grew up and fell in love as teenagers back in the 80s. María’s mother and father still live there, and they just built a big new house, financed in large part by six of their children living and working in Charlotte, North Carolina. (María is the only sibling still in Honduras!) Another day we spent at another river, but not just any river; this was in the shadow of Pijol, the biggest mountain in Honduras. It won’t surprise you I’m sure if I say the highlight of every day was the abundant, delicious food! Please don’t call me a sexist if I say María really loves making great meals, which I facilitated in my humble way with the cash I gave her as soon as we arrived. “In case you need to get anything....”

Back home in Las Vegas, it had been so long since anyone showed up with a bloody cut that I had stopped stocking iodine, gauze, Neobol spray, and tape. Suddenly, an epidemic. First, my neighbor, sweet old Mina, 84, had a dizzy spell and fell and split her forehead open on the corner of a table; she was tended to by Dr. Meme at her own house, but you should have seen how fast the news spread and everyone came running to see how they could help. I did not have the Neobol, but I had some “cicartrizante” cream that was near expiration, which Meme was happy to apply. Eight stitches.

Next was Rene, 17, who I saw limping along about 3:00 in the afternoon a couple days later. “I cut myself clearing weeds.” Up in the mountains, in the early morning, with his machete. He had it all bound up with--get this--some leaves and a necktie. His mother is in San Pedro, awaiting an operation for cervical cancer. So I hustled him into my house, and, thinking we’d just sort of clean it up and put some band-aids on, I had him sit in the bathroom with Chemo, gently washing the wound just below his right knee. By the time they were finished, the bathroom floor was awash with blood. I swallowed hard and put the band-aids away. I called Doctor Rebeca, who said she’d be glad to help, but she was in La Ceiba! So I sent some other kids to find Dr. Meme, who sent word back to meet him in his private office at his mother’s house, just a block away. Rene said, “Miguel, is this gonna hurt?” In my calmest voice, I lied, “Not at all.” As I watched him grit his teeth and twist his arm around his head in pain, I felt pretty bad for deceiving him, but when he was all finished, he thanked me. Six stitches.

The very next day, Nahum brings me a little piece of paper with a prescription on it--for Neobol. “What’s this?” It was for his nine-year-old nephew Jonatan. He’d already been stitched up by Meme at the clinic, so I missed that drama, but I went over to the house, because it sounded pretty horrible. The poor kid was running to meet the bus that he thought his mother was coming on (she works in San Pedro and he only sees her once a month), and he ran right into some barbed-wire. It ripped a jag across his brow, somehow just missing his eyes. Thirteen stitches. His mother wasn’t even on that bus. She came later, and she had to treasure her child’s devotion.

Just as was toting up the score, here comes Alec, 13, very reluctantly, who has cut his foot on a piece of broken glass down at the swimming hole. Once he unwrapped his “bandages,” including the ever-present leaves, I could see, amidst all the crusted blood, that it was a straight cut, on the very sole of his left foot. I didn’t even think you could sew that up; kids that almost never wear shoes have soles as tough as any leather. But by the next day, I changed my mind. Alec, who’d obviously learned from Rene’s experience that it WOULD hurt, kept saying, “Miguel, don’t spend your money.” But I called Rebeca, who was back in town. “Bring him over, Don Miguel. We’ll take a look.” He went without too much resistance, hobbling on one foot. At first, Rebeca thought Meme should handle this. Why? “It’s been over twelve hours.” Uh-oh. Whose fault was that! But when I said I’d sprayed it with Neobol (a sort of medicinal super-glue, which I had by then re-stocked), she felt more confident, and started assembling her gear. Poor Alec lay face down across the chairs on the porch, and I did my best to calm him and hold him steady as Rebeca injected his foot over and over again with anesthetic. It was waterboarding without the water. Small and wiry, Alec likes to sort of peacock around like a tough guy, but now he was reduced to sobbing and sniffling like a baby. I think that hurt him more than the syringe. Three stitches. Just three, but it was slow going. No thank-you’s from Alec, but by the afternoon, he was his old self, sassing and shorting all comers.

I just got a batch of Christmas cards! Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! Wonderful to hear from you! Some folks frown on “Christmas letters,” you know, with all the family doings from the past year. I read them like Scripture, I’m so eager for news. I had just checked a week before with Mercedes, the very nice woman who handles the mail in Victoria, whether I had any “correspondencia.” Nothing right now, she told me. Then, this sudden drop. She actually came to Las Vegas to deliver the cards personally. So I guess somewhere in the system they had held up the mail for the holidays. That’s fine, I love getting Christmas cards in the “summer”! They can double as Valentines.

It was the Grinch who just visited my neighbor Juana’s house next door. Juana, along with sons Donaldo, 18, Carlitos, 13, and daughter Isabel, 10, and Juana’s dad were all visiting family up in the mountains for a few days. Some kid broke into the house (it’s not hard here, most “locks” yield to a kick), and carted off all of the boys’ clothes, her dad’s shoes, a pair of shoes of dear old Julia who died last May that Juana had been saving as a memento, some nice curtains they were hopefully storing for a new house, a couple bottles of “lotion,” or cologne that serves as deodorant down here. The jerk even took the home phone! How he got all of this stuff out without being noticed--he must have had at least two big bags--no one knows. It was the middle of the day! Actually, I saw him myself. A teen from Guachipilin, 16, some say 18. The kids around here had warned me before that he was a thief; of course, they told me that after I’d already let him in the house a couple times to watch TV with them. The day of the robbery, he was sitting outside my house. I assumed he was waiting for me, but I was on my way out to someplace, so I think I maybe slipped him 20 Lempiras. I guess I just whet his appetite! He is distinguished by a scar on his upper lip. I always thought it was probably from a cleft palate; now I’m thinking it’s more likely from a fight!

Juana was brave enough--or desperate enough, she just looked so hurt and stressed out, on the verge of tears--to go to Victoria to the police. Well, I’ve already told you about our police in Honduras (see http://www.stltoday.com/news/national/police-switch-sides-as-crime-booms/article_bdfdb1e7-3a2a-574c-a248-8b51f13f1afa.html), so you know what help they were. Right now, he’s still at large, and has no doubt disposed of his haul. And he’s family! the son of Juana’s sister-in-law. Chemo gave Carlitos a pair of shorts and he gave his Cardinals shirt to Donaldo. That’s the shirt my sister Barb got for Chemo when I was in St. Louis. Chemo asked my “permission,” and, if you know my sister, you know she wouldn’t object; she’s the most compassionate person on the planet; she’ll “clothe the naked” all day long! I sort of waited for that “Wonderful Life” moment, you know, when the whole town rallies to reverse George Bailey’s misfortune; failing that, I made my own contribution to the family, at least enough for a couple “mudadas” (change-of-clothes).

Meanwhile, also pulling at the heartstrings and the pursestrings was Chemo’s sister Aureliana, actually half-sister, same father, but by his first wife, who died when Aureliana was only 4 (she’s 38 now). Plagued by stomach problems, she came to stay a few days with Natalia, hoping for some relief. So again we enlisted Dr. Rebeca, who loaded her up with Mylanta, among other things, and performed a bunch of tests, first of all for pregnancy! That was negative, “Thank God!” said Aureliana. Even her two-year-old Armando (who the kids call “Gringo” because he’s practically albino) says “NO!” to another brother or sister. Chemo just loves these little tykes like Armando and Rosa’s Tonito in Tocoa. They drive most people crazy, they’re like perpetual-motion machines, but for Chemo they are his own “Lost Boys.”

Next month, school starts and I’ll also report on my trip to Mexico for the wedding of former Parkway North student, Christy Tharenos. Can’t wait!

Thank you for remembering us down here; I might echo the great Etta James, who just passed. “At last, my love has come along.” First, last, and always, that’s you.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2012

2012-01-01T22:58:00.002-06:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2012

The Beacon just published my “Christmas Letter”:
http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/114939-letter-from-honduras-nice-news-for-the-holiday

“FURTHER”

By my calculations, this is the 100th edition of ESTA ES SU CASA, dating back to June of 2003. If you have been along for the long strange trip, like Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters’ bus “Further,” I just have one question: who’s driving?

As December began, I felt like the opening line of Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find”: “The Grandmother did not want to go to Florida.” Every step we took could have been our last, or at least I began to hope so. Would we go to Tocoa at the eastern extreme of Honduras, to visit Chemo’s sister Rosa, 24, and brother Marcos, 15? Or would we go to Tras-Cerros at the western extreme to visit Chemo’s mother Rufina? Or, God forbid, both? If it were a big circle, it would at least feel like progress, but it’s a slingshot--a very long and slow slingshot--no where there.

I was pushing for a compromise, with Marcos meeting us at the halfway point, in El Progreso, to go to Rufina, because Marcos would be spending Christmas with us in Las Vegas, so he was the key, as far as I was concerned. But Chemo was making Tonito, Rosa’s little four-year-old terror, the top priority. Chemo loves that kid! So I saw the writing on the wall, and it was all dollar signs.

Now, I ask you, if a mother wants to see her children, wouldn’t she live a little closer to them? But there’s enough poverty in this family, including all its broken history, that I feel it my duty to keep connecting Chemo--and Marcos--with their mother, at whatever cost. Chemo was ambivalent. “I just saw her in July,” when we went for her birthday. Maybe it is harder for him to see her than not, if he has to start from scratch, emotionally speaking, every time. So maybe we’d cut off that whole leg of the trip. “It’s too much money for you to spend,” he said. Was I turning him into a cheapskate like myself, pricing his own mother out of his circle of concern? Or, more likely, was he gauging how he’d spend whatever we saved on more soccer shoes, clothes, CDs, and other stuff? Either way, I was determined not to surrender to cynicism.

But I did drag my feet some, hoping for more clarity. First, we needed to wait for Mariana Teresa’s second birthday December 2, which I described in the November CASA. And then, when Santos--Chemo’s half-brother--and Alba’s daughter Cecilia (“Chila”) would be turning 15 on December 6, we couldn’t miss that, because the “Quinceanera” marks the traditional turn from a girl to a young lady. Ordinarily we would miss it, because the family would have already long since headed for the mountains of El Transito to pick coffee for three or four months. But, what with the new baby, whose name they modified to Alba Suyapa, instead of the homage to Alba’s mother Natalia that I was pushing for, they postponed their departure. In fact, I was sure that the new-born was really too little to be carting her off to the cold and lonely hills. But here babies don’t get babied.

Chila really is already a young lady. During the difficult days of Alba’s pregnancy, she managed the house, including making our supper every night, all the while working her way successfully through third grade at school. But they made a lovely little birthday party for Chila. For the cake, Profe Flor made a masterpiece, a blend of strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla, decorated like a French palace, complete with a little figurine “15” on top.

But then, we had to get going. We could not even wait for the big exodus to El Transito, because who knew how long our pilgrimage was all going to take, with possible stops in El Progreso and Morazan as well. And I thought we might be having visitors for Christmas, so we better be home when they arrived!

We were pretty lucky the first day. Leaving at 5:00 a.m., five hours to El Progreso, where we jumped on a bus to Tocoa just waiting for us, it seemed. At first I thought, oh no, we can’t take this bus, it’s old and crowded. We’d always taken these big, sort of Megabuses before to Tocoa. But I quickly came to my senses, as Chemo was pulling me along. “Let’s get on! Let’s get on!” He was right, of course, because it’s not the bus, it’s the road. And this road was paved. But it was crowded, enough that when we stopped for a quick lunch break at a big cafeteria, Chemo started sharing his food with a woebegone little boy whose mother couldn’t afford the touristy prices; I followed his lead and gave the child the rest of my soda.

Five more hours to Tocoa, the village of Juan Antonio, to be exact, where Marcos met us at the highway and we started the hike up the road. He and Chemo picked up right where they left off a year ago, teasing and poking, and Chemo grabbing Marcos’ cell phone, which Marcos had bought with money he earned milking cows.

But the river, would the river be a problem? I’m such a baby, I treat it like the Red Sea, when it’s no more than a creek, but I just imagine slipping off the stepping stones and wetting myself (you should excuse the expression) with no chance of drying off in the rainy, cloudy climate. “There’s a bridge now!” Marcos assures us. Well, then, I’m saved. We round a bend in the road and I see, or strain to see, the “bridge.” “That’s not a bridge, that’s a branch!” A tree trunk stripped of its bark, with a kink in it like the old Chain of Rocks Bridge that gave me nightmares my entire childhood, thrown across the gorge. With one deaf ear, I have little sense of balance, so I was ready to give up. A little closer, I could see a cable stretched above it, for a handrail, of sorts. OK, maybe.

I gave Marcos my backpack, and he scurried across like a squirrel, while I placed one foot in front of another in a very poor imitation of Philippe Petit crossing between the Twin Towers. Good night nurse, it’s only like forty seconds from one end to the other and I’m praying (cursing?) like a madman. But, I made it, the cable imprinted in my desperate hand. Chemo didn’t even attempt it; he skipped across the stepping stones we crossed last year, but even he misstepped, plunged one leg up to his knee in the water, as Marcos’ cell phone popped out of his pocket right into the river.

We regrouped at the house a few minutes later, where Rosa, Tonio, and of course Tonito welcomed us. Chemo had retrieved the cell phone, and I grabbed it from him. “Where’s the rice?” I had just seen a piece on Yahoo News, What to Do If You Drop Your Cell Phone in a River, or something like that. Remove the battery, and bury the phone in (uncooked!) rice overnight, to dry it out. This is Honduras, so there’s no shortage of rice in a kitchen; Rosa had a big plastic jar full of it right on the counter. Of course, she had to dig around the phone when it came time to fix supper, but by golly, next morning it worked! One tiny grain lodged inside.

You know what? Rosa is actually...a little plump. That’s a good thing, since she was literally on the verge of death a couple years ago when we took her to the same brigada of heart surgeons that had saved Chemo’s life in 2008. They opted for medication rather than surgery, and she’s been backing off the brink ever since. Tonio, too, has been easier on her, since she walked out on him and holed up with Tonito at our place in Las Vegas a couple months last year. Taming Tonito is like a box of spiders, but he’s talking a little better, so at least you know what you’re saying “No” to. First thing he says to me, “Miguel, I’m not saying ‘puta’ anymore.” The equivalent of the F-word. He’s not saying it any less, either! We quickly lost count. It’s not an easy habit to break when your mom and dad still punctuate with it, too. Kindergarten’s gonna be a blast.

My big plan was a Day at the Mall, or a couple hours anyway. So on Saturday, everyone dressed up and we rode the bus into town. (After I swung like a drunken trapezer hanging onto that cable across the log-bridge.) Now, you have to sort of suspend disbelief here. I mean, this is a mall whose “anchor” store is a Wendy’s. Everyone wanted fried chicken, except me (a “Cheddar Lover’s” burger). Afterwards, Marcos, Chemo, and Tonito played for at least an hour in the Playground. Then a shopping spree at the super market, where Rosa loaded up the cart. And I threw in some chocolate, a Hershey bar or two. There was a big soccer game on a big screen in the “atrium,” with rows and rows of chairs set up, but I was looking for Santa Claus, for Tonito, you know. Only later did I express my frustration: “We never saw Santa!” Chemo says, “Oh, he was there, he was watching the game!”

Chemo’s used to the big city experience, Tonio’s a bull, and I’m a gringo--but that night everyone else got sick. Whether it was all that food, or just the chocolate, or the combination of the two, I felt bad that I’d made an affliction out of an invitation. Still, I’d rather die eating chocolate than live a thousand years on humus.

“Let’s go!” Chemo wanted to get going--but where? Marcos, who had not seen Rufina in a year, wanted to see their mother. Chemo still toyed with skipping that part. Marcos, it must be said, is hardly demonstrative. You have to be very patient to “read” his feelings; he might agree with you just to accommodate you. But even Chemo seemed to get the message. When he told me to call Rufina and tell her we weren’t coming, I handed him the phone when she answered. “You tell her,” I said. He did not hesitate. “Mommy, we’re coming, we’re coming tomorrow.” Sweet!

That night before we left was the national championship game between Chemo’s favorite team Olimpia and Real España. It’s the first time in a while that I sat and watched a whole soccer game, but we were at Rosa’s neighbor Consuelo’s house, the only place around with a TV, so I thought I better be polite. It was actually fun! Virtually the entire game was played at Real España’s end of the field (or “pitch,” for you purists), but even firing shot after shot, Olimpia could not score, till the last 4 minutes of the game, a weird ball that snuck in right between the Real España goalie’s crouching legs. Chemo went crazy! The recap was funny; the commentator says, “Well, it’s difficult to evaluate Olimpia’s goalie performance, since Real España NEVER GOT OFF A SHOT!”

Early Monday morning, we crossed the stick-bridge before dawn; the log was wet and slippery, and I moved slower than ever. Meanwhile, a couple of pick-ups drove right through the river, carrying workers to their daily tasks. “I should have waited for a ride,” I kept repeating like a mantra till I finally landed on the other side, an emotional wreck, scared to death of a river 30 feet across and a foot deep....

We hiked to the main road, and just as we got there, a bus to Tocoa rumbles past; I waved and yelled, but it did not stop. “Why didn’t it stop?” I kept repeating, as if I could reverse reality. But a couple minutes later, I got my answer. A great big blue bus approached and...stopped! An express to San Pedro Sula! We quickly squeezed Rosa and Tonito goodbye and clambered aboard and snuggled into the big comfortable seats. Thank God we “missed” the other bus! We’d be there in no time, that is, about 6 hours.

We had two delays. First, a horrible accident with the vehicles still steaming and folks climbing and falling out of a bus as big as ours and a pickup and another car, a mass of twisted metal and debris. A couple minutes earlier, it could have been us. The only dead thing I saw was a dog on the side of the road, maybe the cause of the whole thing, if someone swerved to avoid it.

Then, near Progreso, teachers had blocked the road at a bridge, demanding pay for their comrades who had worked a whole year without it. We were so far back in the stalled traffic that I did not see how they were finally dispersed, but as we got closer, at least I did not detect any tear gas.

In San Pedro Sula, we had time to get lunch at the huge bus terminal before catching the next bus to the Guatemalan border. We ate everything in sight! And washed it down with a gallon of cold Fresca. We got it to go, so we wouldn’t miss the bus, and sat on the ramp, spreading ourselves out like a picnic. People stared, sympathetically, like we were refugees or something.

It’s a “quick” trip to Tras-Cerros, just over two hours. As we stepped off the bus, Fidel, Rufina’s beloved companion, was waiting. He’s as delicate as a dancer, but strong as a bull. Rosa had packed up three enormous bags of stuff (plates and dishes, pots and pans, and clothes and shoes) that Rufina had left behind when she and Fidel and Don Cruz fled Tocoa after being assaulted almost a year ago. Tras-Cerros is Fidel’s home town, and Don Cruz’, too. Fidel carried everything, stopping only once to shift weight.

At the house, the boys immediately fell into into mommy mode, and Rufina answered in kind. I pulled up a chair to talk with Don Cruz, now 92. “Estoy terminando, Miguel.” “I’m done.” He said it so finally, so matter-of-factly, I thought he meant he was literally about to die. But he clarified, “I can’t work anymore, legs won’t take me.” So Old School, so noble, salt of the earth. If you can’t work, you’re done. “Retirement” is surrender. Becoming a burden for someone else, a humiliation. Of course, Rufina and Fidel never mention such things; he is and always will be their “patron,” the man in charge. And I wouldn’t let it pass, either; I started with questions only he could answer, history, customs, politics, frontiers, and the Bible, which he still reads daily, and without glasses! I’ve had “cheaters” since I was 12, and ol’ Don Cruz can still read the Fine Print in his 90s. No, he ain’t done yet!

I question my own capacity among such poor folks, such poor food, such poor accommodations, all offered with such readiness. I could really do with a little humiliation myself. Three meager beds: I slept with Chemo, Marcos slept with his mom, Fidel slept with Don Cruz. Bedtime: 6:30 p.m. I was so tired from our travels that I thought I would make it through the night with no problem, till I woke at midnight, ready to rise. I listened to podcasts till dawn, dozing fitfully.

Chemo wanted to leave after one day, I was thinking three. Marcos, as usual, was noncommittal. We settled on two. And what would be the next step? To Progreso and Morazan, or straight back to Las Vegas? We owed another visit to Santa and the family in Progreso, and to Fermin and Maria in Morazan, but it seemed like a slog up Everest to stay on tour. I had not changed my clothes or bathed in a week. So a night at a hotel in Progreso was enticing, where we could clean up and eat at Pizza Hut, and the Internet would finally work. Chemo saw it as a chance for a shopping spree at the mall. This is so lame, don’t you think? The poor do not live in intervals, where a few jump-cuts of joy sustain them for the long haul. But I know my limits, or I say I do, to excuse myself.

The boys thought they would go to pick coffee with Fidel, but bouts of rain kept us cooped up all morning. A break in the weather let us walk into town for groceries, as well as some hardware to install another couple of lights in the house. The neighborly electrician patched things together in no time.

Rufina, in her very quiet way, clearly longed for more time, even as we rose early on Wednesday to make the bus to San Pedro Sula. “Don’t go today, look, it’s raining.” I gave her some cash that could get her to Tocoa, to visit Rosa, Tonio, and Tonito--and Marcos once he gets back home. Was I paying her off? I don’t know.

We slogged through the mud to get to the bus, but once aboard, the most amazing thing happened. The driver turns on a flat TV screen mounted in the front, and up comes the original “Home Alone”! It kept the boys--and me--entertained all the way to San Pedro. And I was crying! I mean, the kid wished his family away, but he missed them so much, he got them back. Meanwhile, I quizzed Chemo and Marcos both: Progreso? Morazan? Home alone? Chemo was inclining now to a return to Las Vegas, but he sure would love that mall-stop.

Even in San Pedro, we were undecided. I headed us toward a cab to take us to a bus to Progreso--I’d already called Dora in Las Vegas, telling her not to expect us till, maybe, Friday or even Saturday--when Chemo said, “I’m hungry now; let’s eat here.” So we repeated virtually the same lunch we ate three days before. A do-over. Then the cab, and you know, sometimes you have to think outside the box, and sometimes you have to think outside the Big Box. As we passed a mall just a couple blocks from the terminal, I suddenly thought, “What are we doing! If we’re going to Progreso to go to a mall, here’s a mall right here!” I stopped the cab in mid-career, and set the picture for the boys. “If we get our stuff here--fast--we can still catch the bus to Las Vegas. All in favor...”

There are actually two malls, side by side, in San Pedro, one fancy, one fancier. I was just confused enough that we ended up at the fancier one. I’ve never spent so much on so little in my life! It’s a week before Christmas, right? Sales galore. The sports store said Up to 70% Off. Except anything we wanted. Soccer shoes, socks, shorts, jerseys, and a ball, 300 dollars. Merry Christmas! I had to tell myself, it’s worth it; this is professional-grade equipment; it won’t fall into rags so quickly. And look at all the money we were saving by not going to Progreso, etc., easily 300 bucks. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Anyway, we scampered back to the terminal, where Porfirio’s bus soon appeared, and we settled in for the long ride home. Like old Don Cruz, we were “done.”

The Posadas were set to begin the next night, a wandering chain of visits in imitation of Mary and Joseph seeking shelter in Bethlehem, with Christmas carols, bible readings, and a dash of preaching. Last year about 12 or 15 folks would show up; this year participation exploded, 60 and 70 each night. The kids would cart my chairs house to house in the afternoon, but I’ve only got about 40, so plenty of folks still had to stand. No one complained.

The string of visits was interrupted Dec. 23 by a Mass and wedding. Nahum and Erika were the lovely couple, and it was so simple, rustic, you might say, but so nice. Chemo says, “How are they getting married? They’ve already got two kids!” Yes, well, this is special. And it was special; they held their reception at their house, a sprawling ranch, a legacy over a hundred years old, passed down generation to generation in Nahum’s family. And what with holiday cantinas springing up on every street, Nahum and Erika welcomed their guests to an alcohol-free celebration. The true Spirit of the Season.

Speaking of relationships, the U.S. government just announced the end of the Peace Corps in Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador, citing the lethal level of violence in those countries. Everybody leaves in January. I’ve met Peace Corps volunteers ever since I started coming to Honduras, and no one has been a victim of violence, thank God, and I’m sure the volunteers willingly accept the risks. I just hope “Big Sis” Napolitano doesn’t try to chase me out, too.

But who needs “foreigners” anyway? The original Youth Group begun back in the 1980s by Cristina (“Titina”) Castro took advantage of the Season to stage a party in her honor. They’re old enough now to have teens themselves in the current Youth Group, but that first group was special. It was my own introduction to Las Vegas, and, as led by Cristina, they marveled that no one has abandoned their Christian faith. In fact, the only reason Cristina agreed to the fete, I’m sure, is that she saw another chance to share the message she has shared her whole life. You know, sometimes the topic of “women priests” is controversial; for Cristina, ordination would be a step down. She’s in a category by herself, a prophet! Over the years, battling Parkinson’s and other debilities, her voice has softened some, but her Spirit is just as strong as ever. She preached and then, “I’m going to sing now.” Everyone joined in, we were kids again.

I wish Chemo had a Titina. I watch closely for every sign of grace. While he’s on break from school, I have him read the Gospel every day. I try to get Marcos interested, too, but his reading level is so low, we have to go letter by letter. He’s a candidate for Special Education, clearly, but where’s the Special Educator? They do fill my heart when they get up early to go with Dionis, Natalia’s 14-year-old, to climb into the rough hills to collect firewood, and return hours later loaded down and exhausted. The firewood, of course, is for cooking our supper, which, in Alba’s absence, Natalia, Alba’s mother, so kindly prepares. The food is great, her smile even better.

Angelita prepared a birthday party for her brother Ery, who turned 24 on December 30. Think of it. Down Syndrome has tried to claim his life any number of times over the years, but real regard for him has been even more elusive; he’s sort of a toy in the community. Angelita is unembarrassed by the affection she showers on him.

The Merry Pranksters never reached their destination. They never went further enough.
Even they “did not want to go to Florida.” Flannery O’Connor’s story is comic, tragic, above all revelatory.

On December 22, Alice, Teresa Jorgen’s eldest sister, succumbed to Alzheimer’s at age 64. When I visited her with Teresa, she was fading, but serene and pure. There was such peace and love at her passing that you could almost hear the little bells tinkling when Alice got her wings. A grandmother herself, she really went all the way, all the way to “Florida,” that destiny that binds us all together.

Even Christopher Hitchens got on the bus. He was my favorite atheist; he wouldn’t bow to any god, including the idol of self-importance. He was so witty, so contentious, and so drunk a lot of the time that his “greatest hits” are making the rounds of the Internet. But I think, ultimately, he will be remembered for the column he wrote about the death of Lt. Mark Daily, whose service in Iraq Hitchens’ writings had inspired. Hitchens’ struggle with his responsibility is a lesson in morality just as strict as the Sermon on the Mount.
http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2007/11/hitchens200711

God-denier though he was, Hitchens here seems bathed in the faith of those the great theologian Karl Rahner called “anonymous Christians.”

The poor are mostly anonymous all the time. As I start another hundred of these newsletters--and I promise they won’t all be this long!--all I want to do, God willing, is tell their stories, just a nudge, if you will, to go a little further.

We burned the “Old Man,” 2011, on New Year’s Eve, glad to be rid of his death-grip on our dreams. Stuffed with firecrackers, he met a fitting end. Now for 2012, our last chance, if the Mayans are to be believed....

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2011

2011-12-03T06:57:00.003-06:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2011

THE NICE SECTION

Chemo passed fourth grade! I think I mentioned this before, but now we have documentation. On November 30, the students got their “certificado.” Chemo’s teacher Juana Maria had him and a few other kids spend an extra week after classes ended November 4, to sort of compensate for his near miss by helping clean up the classroom and doing some extra exercises.

So, while the teachers prepared their final grades, Chemo and I celebrated, first, with a trip to Tegucigalpa. Chemo had not been there since last June for his heart checkup, so he had a lot of eating to catch up on. We started right away, with a meal right at the Nankin Hotel as soon as we checked in. In Las Vegas, we eat chicken at least 12 times a week at lunch and dinner, but the fried chicken dinner at Nankin--outstanding! You just can’t help it, you gotta have it. Especially after a long bus trip.

We took Mema and Elio out to lunch the next day, to their favorite restaurant Mirawa. Mema was feeling pretty bad, so we did our best to cheer her up. “Can I order something special?” she said. She had in mind some fish. The server asked, “Small, medium, or large?” We drew a consensus for medium, but when it arrived, after all the other dishes had already been served, it was as big as Flipper, I swear, but fried. “This is medium?” So we all helped, you know, just to be nice....

Chemo got new clothes. I knew that was coming, but we did have to negotiate the soccer shoes a bit. The upscale shop at the mall had a 50 percent off sale, but most of them were still way out of reach. And the clever clerk wasn’t helping. “The blue ones? They look great on you!” I favored the black ones, at half the half price of the blue. When Chemo went over to check out some others, at full price, along the wall, I whispered to the guy, “You gotta help me. Please!” He got the message, and talked Chemo into the black ones. “They fit better, don’t they?” But Chemo gets some credit, for his own yielding to reality. And we compensated with Puma socks.

The victory lap picked up again the next week, with our patented combo trip to El Progreso and Morazan. In Progreso we celebrated a couple more birthdays, of Argentina (“Tina”), the long-suffering matriarch of the family, and Yulissa, 16, one of her granddaughters, whose mother Santa fancies herself my “girlfriend”; she wanted to know where the engagement ring was that I supposedly promised I would bring from the States. I distracted her by betting a number in the rather elaborate daily games she runs. I really don’t know if it’s a legal pursuit, but it keeps her and Catalina, her sister-in-law, pretty busy. I bet 65, Tina’s birthday age. That was at lunch. Then Chemo and I went off to the new mall and spent some more and ate some more.

In the evening, we got pizzas and chicken wings at Pizza Hut for the official birthday party, as we waited for the numbers. At 9:00 they announce the Lotto winners on TV; these are Santa’s “winners,” too. When 65 actually came up in a row of four balls, I almost fell off my chair! “That’s not OUR number,” Santa quickly clarified. Of course not. “Our” number was the single ball that popped up in the next round, 49, but I kept insisting I had won, even when they walked us back to the hotel after we had enjoyed the birthday cake.

Then, the next morning, to Morazan. Fermin had already warned us that he would be tied up with schoolwork in the morning, so we took our time, to arrive around noon. But Maria was home, so I gave her a wad of cash as soon as I could, for some food, an un-birthday celebration, you might say. And she came through, with help from daughter Esly, about to graduate from ninth grade. Lunch was great, supper even better, featuring Maria’s own fantastic fried chicken, and everyone could relax. But I’ll tell you what, the thing I most enjoy is just watching Chemo play with the other kids, soccer, naturally, whether it’s Santa’s kids in Progreso or Fermin’s in Morazan. And we went “downtown” to get more soccer shoes; Chemo was being coy, but I figured out he’d promised to give a pair to his cousin Dionis back in Las Vegas. I couldn’t get upset, really, since Dionis gets no “extras” from his own very poor family.

Besides Chemo, there were other finishers, including Dionis, who “graduated” sixth grade, and hopes for a smooth transition to “high school” next year. It’s a big gap to leap across successfully. As Profe Flor, the principal, said at the closing ceremony November 30, at least half the seventh graders have to “recuperate” some courses in January or flunked outright. Among them is Hector, the artist, whose work you have admired. I knew he was slipping away; he hasn’t done a drawing in months.

Elvis, Jr., “Tito,” who had nearly fallen in the chasm himself when he had to “make up” four courses after seventh grade, graduated ninth grade free and clear, and looks forward now to a career in computers. It fits him perfectly, a sort of introvert, and left-handed, so you know he’s intuitive. He can start with the stupid little MP-3 player I just gave Chemo, which we can’t makes heads or tails of.

Mariela, daughter of Juan Blas and Maricela, graduated one step higher still, a “post-graduate” degree, three years past ninth grade, Honduras’ version of a “Bachelor’s.” She is the eldest, and would love to continue to the university, dreaming even of becoming a doctor, but money in this case is not just a gap, it’s the Grand Canyon. Really, only by my paying (with your help!) the family’s weekly grocery bill all these years could she get even this far. And her sister Milena is right behind her, finishing a “bachillerato” in Progreso, with some help from her young uncle Manuel, himself struggling to make ends meet, with a job in the morning and Psychology classes in the afternoon.

The ceremony was lovely but so staid and formal that it seemed like a parody of a graduation. UNTIL Angel Ramirez took the floor. The graduates themselves invited him, because of his wonderful help with their “practica” in La Ceiba, where Angel now lives. The principal Maribel Barahona did not even want to issue the invitation because Angel does not have a “degree.” He’s not credentialed, don’t you know. Angel was my first best friend in Honduras when his mother Olimpia cooked my lunch and supper in Las Vegas 30 years ago. So when I saw him at the head table, I was just begging the protocol gods to let him speak! He turned the place upside down. He had a tiny piece of paper with about six lines on it, and he gave a stem-winder on each point, more impassioned at every turn. His theme: you don’t need a degree to succeed as a person! Guess who he cited? That’s right, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, etc. As he insisted, he wasn’t putting down “education,” just the big head that may accompany it. His own “graduation” was from alcoholism, thanks to A.A., and I have to say this is the first time I’ve heard him tell his story without tears, but I think he wanted to show Mariela and her companions how far he had come. I wanted to leap to my feet in cheers when he finished, but I settled for the photo op as the principal smiled politely when the class presented Angel with a plaque.

Mariela inspired her father to go back to school, to finish his own high-school diploma in a program sponsored by the parish called “Maestro en Casa,” a home-study routine with week-end meetings for tests and exams. Graduations here are as big as weddings, and unfairly costly. A few years ago, when Padre Chicho heard Maestro en Casa was planning a big affair in Victoria, he put his foot down. “This is education for the poor! You’re not gonna charge them for bottles of champagne on every table!” Things have been very simple ever since. It really is the best educational bargain around.

But folks do like to celebrate, even when they don’t have to. So we delegados (lay ministers) were pretty much overwhelmed with all the “secret” preparations that the Legion of Mary, the catechists, and the youth group coordinated to honor us on the “Day of the Delegado” last Sunday. There were skits, and games, and a big lunch, and not just for those of us in Las Vegas; they had invited all the delegados from the surrounding villages, too, and their spouses, of course, and kids. It wasn’t champagne, it was even fizzier!

Speaking of fizz, when the first moto-taxi appeared in Las Vegas, I thought it was mere fluff. “It’s a village!” I said. Everything is within “walking distance”! But Noelvis, the driver, is the nicest guy, and, I suppose just like cell phones, what began as a curiosity has become a necessity. And now there are two! Oh, the competition. I finally broke down and used it myself when Chemo completed the first step to his “majority,” applying at the local office of the National Registry of Persons in Victoria--which is way past “walking distance,” at least for this Old Gringo--for his official state I.D., issued when you turn 18, but you can apply at age 17. I knew we would miss the bus back to Las Vegas, so I called Noelvis to come get us. We laughed the whole way! It’s the funniest little contraption, running like a rabbit over holes and hills and creeks, threatening to flip over at any moment.

Maybe it doesn’t qualify as “nice” news, but it’s funny enough to make the cut, and that’s how the Liberal Party has broken up into about 6 or 8 splinter “movements” to accommodate every zig or zag taken by Mel Zelaya, the president ousted in a coup three years ago. His egomania has not diminished, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he’s nominated his own wife as the next presidential candidate for all the fledgling mini-parties. It’s such an obvious power grab that even Mel’s staunchest loyalists, priding themselves of course on their principle, are forcing Mel to agree to proper primary elections for SOME kind of competition for Mrs. Mel. But it’s not just dumb; it’s illegal. Any political movement that wants to be registered with the Election Tribunal to get a place on the ballot has to have its own, unique candidate for president. It’d be like the Republican Party, the Tea Party, the Libertarian Party, the Constitutional Party, the Propeller Hat Party (Chris Matthews’ term, referring to some Democrats), and a half-dozen more, all running Ron Paul for President, just to cover all the bases, add up all the votes and beat Obama.

Of course, “legal” is a pretty flexible word in Honduras. But, as I reported last month, it’s gaining some new prestige, as Julietta Castellanos, with the strongest spine in the country, has single-handedly created her own “movement” to clean up the police, whose corruption has more layers than an onion, with new revelations and resignations daily. Her son was kidnaped and murdered by police, brazen enough to use their own squad car for the job, and she has been unrelenting in pushing for reform, using her position as president of the state university to get the word out. Even the President, Pepe Lobo, clears his speeches on the subject with her now. It’s scary, no doubt, since she’s making herself an obvious target for the international drug criminals who don’t like anyone ruffling their feathers. But she’d also make a great candidate for President, compared to Mrs. Mel, who is a “no-brainer,” you might say.

I had to delay this CASA just long enough to include Mariana Teresa’s second birthday on December 2. She’s the youngest of Maricela and Juan Blas’ children. Named for my sister Mary Anne and Teresa Jorgen, she sort of sums it all up, what Honduras means to me, and to you, I hope. Last year, her birthday cake was bad news; it was way underdone and rubbery. So we had Profe Flor do the job this year; her cakes are as big as the Rose Bowl but light as a feather. Mariana Teresa (“Mari-Te”) is not exactly graduating, but when a community buries a baby at least once a month, every birthday is a Ph.D.

And at a Mass that evening, Maricela asked Padre Jaime for a special blessing for Mari-Te. He said, “We’ll all bless her!”

Happy Holidays to all, and God Bless Us, Every One.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2011

2011-11-02T22:23:00.001-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2011

As always, The Beacon shines its light on my Honduras:
http://cts.vresp.com/c/?St.LouisBeacon/46fd837fc6/f2d24133e9/cacd14b97d

ALL THINGS HAVE THEIR TIME

The October edition of the CASA came out just a couple weeks ago, so I could “cover” my time in St. Louis. This November edition offers the events, exhilarating and extreme, before and since.

September 15 is Independence Day in Honduras (and every other Central American country, when in 1821 the whole thing, then known as “Guatemala,” broke away from Mexico, which previously had broken away from Spain). There’s supposed to be a parade and other festivities, but every year the teachers union tries to strangle any celebration, first, because all the expenses for uniforms and fancy clothes only serve to enrich the 1% (Jews and Arabs, for you conspiracy theorists), and, second, because celebrating the “independence” of a beautiful country, yes, but one ruined by a servile, corrupt ruling class is pure hypocrisy. All true, but neither of these rants impresses the students who can’t wait for one day of glory. The “Cuadro de Honor” is especially exciting for the parents of the top students in each grade. And the kindergartners, as cute as cupcakes, get to hang with the big kids, as they join the drum corps, the pom-pons, the drill team, and the dancers in the grand event winding its way through town.

Of course, this takes lots of preparation, eating up gobs of class time (another objection from the more conscientious as the mandated 200 days of class dwindle, not to mention strikes and other stoppages. All the kids participate, and, in an ideal world, all of them would march. But as the teachers put the kids through their paces, they start a sorting process, the more adept kids taking the lead, with further breakdowns, group by group by group, till the last kids just walk along. That’s where Chemo ended up. I swore never to diminish him with criticism, but as I saw Dorita, Dorisell, and even little Anderson in the Cuadro de Honor, and Elvis, Jr., leading the band, I longed for some celebrity for Chemo. His teacher Juana Maria has treated him with great care and kindness, but she never singled him out--till now. She picked him and another “walker” to carry the big sign featuring the Founders. So he went from the back of the parade up to the front! I could barely conceal my pride, and I snapped enough pictures to jam my camera. I thanked Juana Maria over and over again; I was just so grateful. Chemo, of course, barely grasped the significance....

Then came my month in St. Louis, hammer and tongs.

Upon my return to Las Vegas, Chemo had a fistful of quizzes and tests that he had passed. And he had been on his best behavior. The fact is, he got much better parenting while I was gone, living with Dora and Elvis and their kids. And we were all excited by the birth of Alba’s baby. That’s the note I ended the October CASA with: “Life will have its say.”

But death whipped out its sword and cut one of the littlest and one of the oldest from our midst. We were eating supper over at Alba’s when Dora called, frantic and barely able to speak. “Miguel, where are you!” Little Yaciel, just 16 months old, son of Elvis’ sister Maria, had died. It hardly made sense; we’d all seen him earlier in the day, toddling along with his mommy. Some sudden attack and they were rushing him to the hospital in Yoro when he died on the way. They blamed it on “dengue,” a tropical version of a killer flu, but in retrospect it was probably a congenital condition that finally erupted. Reynieria, a neighbor, said the child was “morado” (purple) when they took him away. I thought, heart condition, and thanked God again for Chemo’s operation.

Maria and husband Ivan had actually gone by bus to Yoro with Yaciel, so they continued to the hospital, and by the time all was done that could be done, the last bus had left. So Elvin, a huge, solid guy, (not to be confused with Elvis, skinny and tall) drove his “ambulance” up there to bring them back. Meanwhile, we waited at the house. It was a horrible vigil, and I begged my sister Barb to text me the progress of the Cardinals World Series game. Fittingly enough, there was no progress; it was the night they were shut out; but the distraction was welcome nevertheless.

Just as the game ended in a 4-0 loss, the ambulance arrived, and so did the despair and screams and cries and floods of tears. Maria was a wreck and Ivan not much better. Their other son, Ivancito, 4, had stayed with Dora, in her lap, in fact. He could barely comprehend what had happened. According to Dora, the only thing he said was, “I can’t play with him anymore, because they have to take him up to the cemetery where they took Grandma Julia.” How ironic was it that this tragedy coincided with the six-month anniversary of Doña Julia’s death, Yaciel’s great-grandmother, and we had already started another novena.

Maria stayed mostly in her room during the wake, but when she came out and bathed Yaciel in her tears, and no one seemed to be planning anything, I borrowed a Bible and gleaned every passage in Matthew’s gospel where Jesus holds and blesses and defends “the little children” from their adult worriers.

The next day, after the funeral, I sought out Elvin to thank him for his mournful task. His eyes welled up in tears, as “tough” as he is. “It was a long ride.”

Another day, another departure. Doña Binda, 96, was gone. Her classic, handsome face, crowned in a wool of pure white hair, finally succumbed to the inevitable, a life 94-and-a-half years longer than Yaciel’s. In fact, I had already collected photos I had of Binda over the years, a folder that had transferred intact from my old to my new computer.

But that’s when I discovered that my HP printer wasn’t good enough anymore, no, no, no, not for the MacBook Pro! Not even after a download from HP to update it. So I went to Yoro, thinking it had to be a wild goose chase, to find a current, compatible printer in a technological backwater. I found one, the only one in town, I’m sure, an HP no less, but way fancier than I wanted, a printer-scanner-copier in one, with a price to match. But I bought it, figuring this was a lot cheaper than a two- or three-day trip to Tegucigalpa. When I connected it, it needed an update too, to raise it just one point. But it took so long to download, with my clunky dial-up Internet, well, let’s just say, it took all of Game 6 (the big one, with all the Cardinals’ comebacks, winning with David Freese’s walk-off homer in the 11th inning ) plus four more hours. At 2:00 in the morning (after that game, I could hardly sleep anyway!), I tried my first print job--the Honduras national anthem that Chemo will be tested on--and it worked! And I have to admit, I love the scanner, perfect for “capturing” Chepito’s drawings, and the copier feature, very convenient. (I gave the old printer to Elvis, along with extra ink cartridges I had bought in St. Louis.)

Then, just a week after Jaciel’s death, word came from Morazan that Ivan’s 11-year-old daughter by a previous relationship had died, the same way, the same suddenness, the same “dengue.” So a man with three children now has one, Ivancito, who is still way too...remote, waiting for his playmate.

Someone who would have been much better than I at telling these stories also bowed out last month, Fr. Dean Brackley, who volunteered back in 1989 to step into the fire--or crossfire--at the Jesuit university in San Salvador when 6 priests and 2 women were murdered one bloody night by a government-sponsored death squad. That was back when the U.S. was giving El Salvador a million dollars a day to suppress “dissent.” Teresa Jorgen took courses from him during a sabbatical; I only met him once, at a talk he gave at St. Louis University, but it was clear enough to leave a life-long impression. If I had not already decided on Honduras, I would have that night. And now, I somehow feel doubly called to a deeper commitment to the poor. If only!

I knew Dean was sick, but I thought he was recuperating. I did not know he had relapsed. Or maybe I did not want to know that he could leave us. The pancreatic cancer just did not quit. Here’s a link sent to me by dear friend Larry Mooney in St. Louis:

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/29/world/americas/rev-dean-brackley-65-dies-moved-to-el-salvador-after-massacre.html?emc=eta1

The highest profile murder in Honduras right now is the kidnaping and “execution” of the son of Julieta Castellanos, the president of the national University. She has governed fearlessly this notoriously contradictory institution, paralyzed until her rule by teacher strikes, student strikes, maintenance strikes, construction strikes, bus strikes, strike strikes just for the heck of it. So suspects abound, but the really wicked part is that the killers were dressed like police; in fact, they ARE police. Given her position, she could follow the case more closely than the average citizen, and is unraveling enough threads of corruption already to force the resignation of the head of the police and his staff, for covering up and even destroying evidence. Suddenly, President Pepe Lobo, who has been strolling through his term with a grin and a shoe shine, isn’t smiling. Clearly, the scandal is lapping at his feet. But this is more than bad grades; it’s bad dope. Maybe you spotted on the Drudge Report the article about Honduras, the drug tunnel for cocaine from Venezuela to the U.S.:
http://hosted.ap.org/dynamic/stories/L/LT_HONDURAS_COCAINE_HUB?SITE=AP&SECTION=HOME&TEMPLATE=DEFAULT&CTIME=2011-10-30-10-55-42

There’s enough poison to kill all our sons--and daughters.

To light a candle, I include the scan of Chepito’s version of one of Bill McNichols’ icons. Bill sent a blank line drawing, and Chepito colored it in, and provided the decorative details. Do you find it as stunning as I do?

Today, November 2, All Souls Day, we went in little groups throughout the day up to the cemetery to pay respects to our departed friends and family. The day concluded with a special Mass, Fr. Manuel gathering up the whole community in prayer. “This is a day for memories, to remember. Let me invite you to share.” And folks spoke from the heart. Some times that’s all you have; some times that’s all you need. These CASAs are my memories....

The song quoted above, based on Ecclesiastes, is by Fr. John Kavanaugh:

All things have their time,
And all things pass away;
But, for those who love,
Time is eternity.

Thank you for your time.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2011

2011-10-29T14:45:00.001-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2011

THE MISSION CONTINUES

My annual visit to St. Louis threatened to fall to pieces under the hammer-blow of
young Stephen Willey’s sudden death the day before I arrived in a head-on collision on a country road just a mile from his family’s home in Greenville, IL. The restoration began even before the funeral when his mom and dad Mary Ann and Dave sought out the truck driver, a neighbor with a young family of his own, to calm his feelings of shock and guilt and assure him that they bore him no ill will, they did not blame him: it was an accident, nobody’s fault. Can you imagine that embrace!

At the funeral, I paid tribute to Stephen and his dreams of becoming a fashion designer:
“Stephen is an artist, and you must say ‘is’ because art does not die. It carries the soul of the artist, like angels, into immortality. The greatest artist is God, and look what God gave us in Stephen! As light bursts into rainbows when flowing through a prism, God’s grace filled up with colors as it poured through Stephen’s soul. And the message for us is that we can all be that beautiful. Stephen dressed his imaginary models, but he dressed us as well. His light is flowing through us now.”

The wound of Stephen’s death cut just as deep for Teresa Jorgen, who grew up with Mary Ann in Kirkwood ever since kindergarten. Teresa was very busy with teaching at Parkway Central High School, so we opened up our schedule as wide as possible, for every healing possibility. And I must apologize to you dear friends who I could not visit who accepted so graciously that circumstance, and God grant you very many blessings for your merciful and sustaining offers of sympathy and love.

Honduras was never far from my mind, especially when I thought (and often dreamed) of my own teenager, Chemo (pronounced “Shay-mo”), living in the newly designated “murder capital” of the world (http://au.news.yahoo.com/world/a/-/world/10474486/six-gunned-down-outside-honduras-airport-police/). I called often, but one day Dora, who was taking care of Chemo while I was away, called me: “Good news! Chemo passed his Social Sciences test,” 26 out of 30 points. Music to my ears, since the school year ends in about three weeks. When I got back, Chemo showed me five other tests that he passed, including math! And Chemo’s aunt Alba, so “very pregnant” in my last newsletter, had her due-date revised to late October. I really did want to be back in Las Vegas for the birth, just in case....

And I talked about Honduras. John Shannon, a former colleague from Parkway North now teaching at Vianney High School, where his sons attend, arranged with their wonderful Spanish teacher Barb Fullenkamp to “teach” her classes for the day. She had prepared them well, and they had excellent questions, and the students listened so kindly with open minds and open hearts.

At Parkway South High School they even had tickets printed up for my talk! And the Diversity Club presented me with two enormous banners: HONDURAS IS BEAUTIFUL and WE LOVE YOU, MIGUEL. Well, that last one is a little embarrassing, but I hung them both up on the balcony of my house in Las Vegas with kids from the neighborhood, and I sent the photo back to South. After my talk, one of the teachers had said that a couple of her “tough” kids came back to class with tears in their eyes. I don’t know that I can take any credit for that, either. The pictures do most of the talking. And the photo with the most impact seemed to be the ‘pieta’ of Petrona in the lap of her cousin Mariana.

It is the theme of our life together. In the last stages of diabetes, Petrona was in such pain, probably from her kidneys shutting down, as a friend in St. Louis with medical experience suggested, that she could only sleep cradled in someone’s arms. I told the students that’s what they were doing with Honduras, because they have a heart for the poor. I titled my latest photobook DETALLES, with Petrona and Mariana on the cover. I defined the word on the first page: “Detalles are simple gifts, lovely gestures, kind words, special remembrances, sweet thoughts, signs of loving-kindness. In Honduras, these ‘details’ abound among the poor.”

Another teacher at South High put it this way:

“I believe wholeheartedly that this is what we are called to do-- walk together, listen and share, shelter one another in the storms of life, offer one another hope-- build a relationship. What does it take to face adversity and still be able to smile? What does it cost to have so little and to still be able to offer a hand? The violence and the suffering are sad, but it is not sad to think that life goes on, love lives in Honduras, and that we all have the capacity to be mindful and caring in the ways we reach out to and impact one another. And we all leave a mark-- even when we think we have tread gently or were unnoticed.”

The Cardinals’ run in the playoffs gave me another perfect entry for my talks, since the red souvenir shirts the kids were wearing are made in Honduras, including the Rally Squirrel! A shirt sold at the stadium for $30 covers a week’s wage for the Honduran who made it, and they make thousands of shirts a week. The exorbitant profit goes to...Albert Pujols, I guess. “Cheap labor.” But human beings are not cheap. If you let the poor clothe you, let them inspire your spirit as well. Poverty, though it deprives us of so many material possessions, does not diminish us as persons when it reveals our common humanity.

I actually got to a Cardinals playoff game. Teresa and I had gone over to Greenville to visit with Stephen’s family again. Mary Ann said, “Come for lunch,” stuffed peppers as big as pumpkins from their garden. “This is the first time I’ve cooked since the accident,” said Mary Ann, which made it all extra nourishing. On the way back to St. Louis, I told Teresa, “I can’t be this close and not get closer.” So she dropped me at the stadium, where I had no hopes of getting a ticket, I thought, but one of the scalpers took pity on me, I guess (I looked like a refugee, without a stitch of red on me, in my Mr. Rogers sweater). “You just need a single?” “Yeah, I guess so.” He calls across the street, “Hey, Meat! Guy needs a single. Do something for him!” I got a face-value $72 ticket for $25, seven rows from the field near the Cardinals dugout. It helped a lot that the game had already started. “Man, I just gotta get rid of these tickets!” So, if you need a deal, Meat’s your man. The text of the night came from my sister Barb, glumly watching the game at home: “Wave your rally towel so I can see where you are.”

The “out-reach” in St. Louis was very generous. For example, when we re-scheduled the Open House for October 9, little Sarah Jane Baker, who had been turned down at a couple venues where she just wanted to sell her favorite books to raise money for Honduras, sold them at Teresa’s house. And, by sheer coincidence, little Selma next door was having her third birthday party; pretty soon the parties intermingled. They were buying Sarah Jane’s books, and we were eating Selma’s cake.

And John Newsham rallied the troops with a big laminated sign made from my photos by his wonder-working secretary, urging donations. It’s so tacky to have my hand out, but I guess I can swallow my pride when so many make a sacrifice even in hard times. Even “Santa” got into the act. Paul Hanson, who dressed the part for years at the College Church Christmas Mass for the children, copied Chepito’s drawings for a “project” he has in mind. “It’s just something I want to do,” he said, his eyes glistening with tears. But I depend on every hug, every smile, every prayer, every chocolate-chip cookie, to soldier on in Honduras, once more into the breach.

For sheer firepower, the biggest leg up for Las Vegas may come from Eric Greiten’s “The Mission Continues” (missioncontinues.org) If you have not heard of Eric, I wonder why! A Parkway North grad, he’s everywhere now, especially since publishing his New York Times best-selling autobiography, “The Heart and the Fist” (theheartandthefist.com), which narrates how Eric transformed his competitive, even combative, spirit as a Navy SEAL into a nonviolent conquest of world poverty and injustice. He has gathered around him a group of veterans, many of whom found themselves drifting and even drowning after their service, to continue the “mission,” this time without guns and weapons, an overflowing heart their only ammo.

Eric hooked me up with Mike Pereira, some of whose experiences in Iraq no one would want to repeat. Now Mike wants to “invade” Las Vegas! Plans are for him to come around Christmas time. And get this, he wants to bring another buddy from the war, who was a little busy at the moment. “He’s at another meeting...at the White House...in the West Wing...with Obama.” OK! So I picture us down by the river in December and we get on the satellite phone or something: “Mr. President, they need a new bridge down here in Las Vegas.” How’s that for “stimulus”?

There is no substitute for the personal touch. That’s why even before I went up to the States, I had accepted Seth Felman’s invitation to the B’nai-Mitzvah of his twins Chase and Hannah--in Chicago. I took the MegaBus up there, something I had never even heard of. (Have you seen this thing? It’s amazing!) I had not seen Seth probably since his own Bar-Mitzvah, 35 years ago (the actual dates are lost to history), when I was subbing at Wydown Junior High. His family sort of adopted me, and a week of “baby-sitting” Seth and his sister Amy sealed the deal. Yet we lost contact for many years till Seth tracked me down a few months ago.

A lot of time had passed, including hard times, so we fell into each other’s arms and...the mission continues. His sister Amy, once she learned of my Honduras connection, had some neat ideas of her own. She loved Chepito’s drawings (and so did her daughter Samantha). She suggested hosting a “Luncheon with Chepito” next year in St. Louis with her friends and associates. Chepito won’t be there, but his drawings will! Perfect, especially since artist Fr. Bill McNichols, who has sort of adopted Chepito as a long-distance apprentice, sent me another shipment of materials while I was in St. Louis, to further develop Chepito’s talent. (See www.fatherbill.org for a catalog of Bill’s extraordinary icons from his Taos, New Mexico, studio.)

Steve Jobs grabbed me from the grave, like the ending of “Carrie,” when I could no longer make photobooks on my “old” (2007!) MacBook and I had to buy a new one in St. Louis. Genius though he was, I practically threw a fit for what the “upgrade” cost me. But death got even closer when I tried to give the used computer to Neysi, Elvis and Dora’s daughter now studying at the national university in Tegucigalpa. I thought I would surprise her. “Ah, Miguel, we have a...problem here. I don’t know how to tell you.” But I was already in the taxi. The “problem” was her 65-year-old neighbor Digna Esperanza shot dead, her bloody body lying in the gutter right in front of the house, a swarm of police standing around. Neysi hurried me inside, and closed the door. The danger only starts with the shooting; anyone who talks to the police is the next target. Lily quickly helped with the computer, finding a happy picture of their family to put on the screen-saver.

But life will have its say. Alba just had her baby! She DID wait for my return.... A little girl that they are calling Natalia for her grandmother. Now, Natalia has at least a dozen grandchildren, half of them girls, and no “Natalia” till now. I asked her about it. “Ay, caramba, I’d hate to think why!” Alba can’t explain the delay, either--little Natalia is her fourth girl!

Please let me know if you encounter any special problems with this edition of the newsletter--text, photos, whatever, till I get used to this new-fangled machine.

Again, I thank you for my life in Honduras, only possible because of your love. As far as I am concerned, you are all Natalias!

Bless your heart, Miguel

OPEN HOUSE + ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2011

2011-09-01T00:59:00.002-05:00

OPEN HOUSE + ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2011

--First of all, I repeat the information and invitation for my trip to St. Louis:

I will be in St. Louis September 21 to October 19, 2011, at Teresa Jorgen's house.
Once I arrive, I should be able to use my cell phone--314-210-5303.
To kick things off, Teresa invites you to an Open House.
2:00 to 6:00 p.m.
Sunday, September 25, 2011.
If you wish, bring a dish, a snack, a dip (yes!), or a beverage to share.
Teresa Jorgen
731 Simmons Ave.
Kirkwood, MO 63122
Phone: 314-966-5782
e-mail: teesee5782@att.net
DIRECTIONS: Simmons Ave. actually runs into Manchester Rd. about a half-mile WEST of Lindbergh. (One very short block EAST of N. Geyer.)
A map can be found at this link:
http://maps.yahoo.com/?ard=1&mvt%3Dm%26lat%3D38.591989%26lon%3D-90.413302%26zoom%3D16%26q1%3D731%2520Simmons%2520Ave.%252063122

--Next, let your light shine! See my latest in The Beacon:

http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/112050-letter-from-honduras-under-the-spell

--Now, our feature presentation.

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2011

STRAW POLL

I don’t know if you’d call us a version of the “Tea Party,” some might call us the “Spoil the Party,” but, led by our pastor Padre Jaime Parra, we massed a “town hall” meeting to demand something altogether serious, an end to alcohol sales at the annual parish celebration of our “patron saint,” the Black (or “burned”) Christ of Esquipulas. It’s actually a feast borrowed from Guatemala, where the original wooden crucifix, blackened by centuries of candle smoke, hangs in the cathedral. Years ago, the very enterprising Padre Fernando Bandeira obtained a copy for the church in Victoria when it became the new seat of the Victoria-Sulaco dual parish.

Every year in January, for at least two weeks, the main street of Victoria swarms with vendors and hawkers of wares and wearings and foods, and about 30 “beer booths,” the ricketiest excuses for a drunken binge you can imagine, a few boards slapped together, just big enough to hold an ancient refrigerator or “freezer,” extension cords and wires running through the urine-soaked mud gutters, with a couple of tipsy tables and various pieces of chairs in front. Meanwhile, the church struggles to keep the mind of the faithful on the “reason for the season,” the infinite mercy of God. Until now, no one has dared challenge the contradiction of low commerce and high hopes of religious renewal. But Padre Jaime and his even younger assistant Padre Manuel Cubias decided to take on The Establishment. They got the mayor, Sandro, to set a date for the big meeting and then rounded us up to show support.

You could easily predict features of the confrontation, I’m sure, but let me note a few highlights. First of all, what I did NOT expect, Padre Jaime seemed to be in charge. Once it was his turn to speak, he never really yielded the floor again, and the mayor did not seem to mind. But the mayor, basically a businessman (he owns the cable TV franchise, which he runs like Scrooge McDuck) tried to cut a few holes in our argument. For example, he said, “What are all you people doing here? This is just a matter for Victoria, I mean, there are people from Las Vegas, El Zapote, Guachipilin,” etc., etc. Padre Jaime put the kibosh on that real quick: “The feast of Esquipulas is a PARISH feast, and the parish includes Victoria and Sulaco and the two hundred villages they contain, so we all have a stake in this; please respect the Church!” A bold claim, considering that Sulaco has its own mayor, not to mention its own patronal feast. the Immaculate Conception, in December. The mayor comes back with, “OK, but look at Las Vegas. You’ve got a cantina a half-block from the Kindergarten. So don’t you get on your high horse.” Well, he’s right about that, though I always thought that the “authorities” in Victoria had to approve such zoning.

There was really no hostility between Sandro and Jaime; in between jibes and jousts, they were smiling and joking together in the background. The most prominent doctor in town asked to speak, “Let me tell you something about the damage that alcohol can do to an individual and a family.” I’m pretty sure everyone there had had some personal experience with that. That’s why we were there! Which, in fact, was another point the mayor wanted to make. “It’s the responsibility of the parents, of the wife, of the family to keep their men sober; you can’t put all the blame on the sellers, you have to put some of it on the sinners!”

Good point. When Chemo and his brother Marcos were testing the waters (the fire water, I should say) a couple of Christmases ago, and when I’d hear that Chepito had found his way inside a bottle again, I couldn’t help noticing that I was the only father, or godfather, out looking for my kid to bring him home. But still, you’d have to say a community shouldn’t fatten itself on the vices of its citizens. I heard each beer booth pays 5000 Lempiras for its temporary license, Indeed, a couple entrepreneurs got up to speak, alarmed that the proposal was to shut down ALL liquor sales, period, close every cantina, every pool hall, cancel every “dance.” Padre Jaime took pains to clarify that the ban pertained only to the feast-days, and only to the beer-booths, though he admitted that Prohibition, if you want to call it that, was “a fight for another day.”

It was nice to see an evangelical preacher--in fact, the president of the evangelical pastors association--take our side, since the scandal of the Catholic church celebrating its feasts steeped in booze is one of the sharpest arrows the fundamentalists prick us with among their own congregations, like stricter Protestants in the States mocking Catholic Bingo.

By the way, speaking of Bingo, a ban on games of chance was also part of the agreement, to clean up the mess. You think the beer booths are scuzzy, you should see the carnival barkers hustling rubes around the “wheel of chance,” including lots of kids. So that was on the plate as well.

Ultimately, it was Padre Jaime himself who called for the final vote, and at that point it was agreed that only residents of Victoria had privileges. “Everyone in favor of the ban, stand over here; those opposed, stand over there.” He kept repeating the instructions, because, once the voters came forward, no one moved. That is, no one went “over there.” It was unanimous. I think Michele Bachmann won the Iowa straw poll the same way, you know, loading the dice! But we all cheered, and noticed just a few sour faces, resigned to their “baptism” or just too intimidated to vote their “conscience.” The mayor said he and Padre Jaime would hammer out the actual document or decree, the legal language. I thought, That’s it? We did it? Just like that? Athenian democracy? I am eager to see how it actually plays out....

Now, if Padre Manuel had been robbed, assaulted, and kidnapped AFTER the historic vote, you’d surely have assumed it was the revenge of the liquor interests. But his ordeal happened a week before the big confab. In fact, his attackers, ten of them in masks and armed like a militia, did not even know who he was, till they asked one of the two other men with him, “What are you doing with this guy?” possibly because they knew them, whereas Padre Manuel has only been in the parish about a year. “Well, we’re just helping the priest.” The priest! “Oh, God, Father, we didn’t know you were a priest!” And they fell all over themselves apologizing. “You know, we don’t want to do this. We’ve got orders from higher up,” that is, from organized crime that has a ready network in place to steal and dispose of vehicles before you even have a chance to report the crime. I have to say that I didn’t understand Padre Manuel. Believe me, if they wanted to car-jack me, I’d play that Jesus card first thing! “You don’t want to rob a man of God, do you!”

What happened was this. Padre Manuel and two delegados were returning from a workshop in Tegucigalpa. Just outside Sulaco, a favorite site for assaults, they were stopped and surrounded by this gang, at three in the afternoon! They were roughed up a little, including having their wrists bound behind their back, blindfolded, and hustled up into the hills, while the car--which had been the previous pastor Chicho’s pickup for years, so it was no “luxury” vehicle--and all their possessions were whisked away. There they were guarded for a while, and then abandoned. In the morning they found their way to a house, and pleaded for help. The only thing the thieves had left Padre Manuel with was the “chip” to his cell phone. He plugged it into a borrowed phone and called Padre Jaime, who had been at his wit’s end with worry, ever since he called the host of the workshop in Tegucigalpa the previous day and was told, “Oh, Father, sure, they left here about one o’clock.” Padre Jaime at first assumed they’d broken down, or had an accident, but that news would have traveled, so he was panicking and calling the police all over the place. Didn’t sleep a wink all night. In fact, when Manuel’s call finally came in, the police suggested they accompany Jaime to recover Manuel. “Could be a trap, Father.” On the other hand, the police are corrupt enough around here that they might themselves be setting the trap, so Jaime agreed to their escort, “But I was keeping an eye on them.”

I have many nightmares about assaults, including one with Godzilla in it after Manuel’s trauma, so I can only imagine how I’ll handle the real thing when it happens to me. I felt so ashamed of our parish, indeed, of Honduras, that these two good men, Jaime from Panama, Manuel from El Salvador, who have only come here to serve the church and share the gospel, should be treated like this. (Jaime has been robbed a couple times, his car broken into but not stolen.) Their own attitude is...miraculous. “That’s life. These are things, no one got killed. And the car was insured.” Manuel did ask Jaime to fill in for him at the next scheduled Friday evening Mass here, because, at least for now, he was too nervous to drive at night. But soon enough Manuel was back, for a Sunday Mass, his patented, engaging delivery of the Word undiminished. “Did you notice what Jesus said there? How about that!”

Besides pulling at some of the threads of entrenched, misguided customs like the feria, Jaime and Manuel have started new traditions from scratch, where there’s no competition from vested interests. For example, the big Youth Day gathering in Las Vegas that I wrote about before. The latest Woodstock was just last Sunday, the third annual parish-wide gathering for EVERYBODY, which last year took place in Las Vegas, this time in San Antonio, near Sulaco. I’m sure the population at least tripled with the influx of pilgrims. Jaime loves a “caminata,” a hike by any other name, so we all gathered in a big soccer field outside town and paraded to the site, about 45 minutes away, deep at the other end of town, another soccer field. But it was splendid, San Antonio capitalizing on lessons learned from the two previous years’ events. The theme was “Be a sign of peace.” So at one point a dove was released. Jaime did a great job getting the big crowd into a celebratory spirit. And to top it all off, it was Padre Manuel’s birthday. At the end of the day, Jaime led us in singing the traditional birthday serenade “Mananitas.” One woman came up and gave Manuel a hug, then a man followed, pretty soon it was a flood and you could see that the gang that robbed him had been reversed. An assault of affection.

The very next day, another extravaganza, this time at the school, sponsored by Ayuda en Accion, the Spanish-based NGO that had almost died on the vine with the financial implosion in Europe. But it has bounced back, and they had the kids working for a couple weeks to transform the school into “Riesgolandia.” When I saw the theme was “una gestion de riesgo,” a risk-alert, I assumed it referred to the crisis in education, but no, it was the environment! I should have known--politically correct. But, actually, in Honduras it’s more than mere fashion. Honduras really is at risk, underscored most recently by a series of storms that have sent floods all over, unimpeded by the illegal clear-cutting in the hills.

The students hauled hundreds of rocks from down by the river and painted them white to make a network of lanes, filled in with a carpet of sawdust, to mark the sites of little pavilions for 6 other schools invited to participate, familiar ones like Guachipilin, El Zapote, Calichito, and others I had never heard of, Rincones, El Jaral, and the strangest of all, Chaguitillo (“Chicago,” as someone called it; which is OK, since Guachipilin is often pronounced “Washington.”) There was a timed painting competition, a selection of “maquetas,” that is, miniatures (of the various schools), but the highlight was the musical competition. There was a panel of judges, and you know you’d love for everyone to win, especially since some of the kids coming from tiny towns in the remote hills who probably never imagined performing before such a crowd and did a brave and beautiful thing.

But the little troupe led by Dorita, Elvis and Dora’s sixth-grader, was miles ahead of everyone else, enhanced by the delightful choreography their teacher Profe Abener. Just see if you can picture this: two little twins were costumed as what? worms! Another child was a sunflower, and two other kids were pine trees, with Dorita a Katy Perry lookalike and the same unending energy, leading the way. When I see these grand showings, I swell with pride for our little town, and for the other little communities who put their best foot forward. But, at the same time, I guess I’m like a soccer mom, torn because my boy Chemo did not make the “cut.” Why? Well, “I’m too big.” That’s what the teacher told him. I don’t raise any ruckus, because, first of all, this teacher has to pass him! And I don’t want any attention drawn to the fact that he’s practically past the legal age for grade school. He’s 16 in fourth grade now; in sixth grade, he’ll be the only student with a legal ID. So let’s not upset any apple carts. But I just want to cry when I see him enjoying all the performances and he’s shut out.

Alba, Chemo’s aunt where we eat supper every night, is pregnant, very pregnant, the baby due in October, when I’ll be in the States. She's sure it's a boy. Her own health is iffy; this is her fifth child. the next youngest, Reina, is 10. I really had hoped she and husband Santos would not have any more kids, once we made a couple trips with her to Tegucigalpa to visit my cardiologist, who was fairly alarmed at her condition. But it went basically nowhere, since she wouldn’t follow up. I’m already having nightmares, except they’re real, like when she recently collapsed, fainted dead away; the kids called her father Elio, who managed to haul her into bed. I came running over when the kids called me, alerting Dr. Meme on the way. He showed up surprisingly quickly, since he was still closing up at the clinic (it was about 5:00 p.m.), by which time Alba had more or less revived and even got up to change to something nice, “because the doctor’s coming over”! Is the baby OK?, was the big question. Dr. Meme assured us yes. Fortunately, when Alba fell, in the kitchen, she just sort of sat down, without hitting anything, sort of a miracle, considering how small the kitchen is. So we are hoping for a healthy baby, and a healthy mom. Prayers, please!

Word is, the liquor ban is not sitting well among the movers and shakers in Victoria. They may be looking for a recount. The mayor has yet to “publish” the minutes of the big meeting, leaving the legal status of the vote in limbo. Maybe I’ll pass around a petition when I’m in St. Louis....

See you soon! Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2011

2011-08-02T21:04:00.001-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2011

UNDER THE SPELL

Always follow The Beacon: http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/inthenews/111722-letter-from-honduras-trees-and-danger

Sometimes you can also catch two birds with one stone, especially when it's the Philosopher's Stone. Yes, I HAD to see the latest (and last) Harry Potter movie, but a special trip to El Progreso, five hours away, seemed mere self-indulgence, till Teresa Jorgen reminded me to visit Fr. Ray Pease, who I had neglected for at least a year. Known these past 50 years here as Padre Ramon, he had just returned from another treatment in St. Louis for a mortal liver/blood disease, his version of Harry's battle with the evil wizard Voldemort. He confronted death also in the passing of his brother George in Denver, where Ramon led the family's mourning and believing.

So, with my priorities in order, I took off, a quick one-day trip. I arranged with Ramon to take him to lunch, but first he wanted to show me pictures of his brother and the funeral on his computer in the parish office. Ramon´s style in inimitable--funny and frank, ironic, holy, blunt, above all, intimate, his heart on his sleeve. He´d go on a while, then say, "But you're hungry, right?" But I would just ask another question or something, to keep him talking. Hungry, yes, for more conversation. I knew this was better than any movie. When we did go to eat, he wanted something "quick," so we ended up at Burger King. There we saw some girls from the high school Ramon started when he first arrived in Honduras. "You know, I was the first principal in the whole country to let the girls wear pants." He chatted with them, though, you know how teens are, they could not really appreciate who this "old man" was. Ramon knows practically everyone in El Progreso. He taught half the population over the years, and their kids, and their grandkids. And he's buried hundreds of them, too, victims of the unrelenting violence that plagues us like a Curse.

He felt tired, then, and wanted to rest some before evening Mass, which I promised to return for. Meanwhile, I headed for the fancy, nearly empty mall at the edge of town to catch the movie. The first showing had started an hour ago, so I asked the ticket seller for two tickets, for the end of this showing and the start of the next. "Don't worry about it; just buy one, and stay." And, indeed, no one did bother me, least of all the audience, which was about 4 people in the whole theater. I saw the last hour first, up to the death (SPOILER ALERT!) of Snape, and the first hour last. No problem, really. When Voldemort orders Narcissa to be sure Harry is dead, she gently bends over him in a sort of Pieta, feels his heart beating, and whispers, "Is my son alive?" At great risk to his own life, Harry had just saved her son Draco from a fiery death, despite their enmity all their years at Hogwarts. So grateful for Harry's unselfish love, Narcissa lies to Voldemort, "He's dead," and Voldemort, who cannot even imagine such bonds, starts his party, only to meet his end shortly afterwards when his wand backfires against Harry's invincible capacity of love. Sorry to go on like this, but there's the gospel of J. K. Rowling, not so different from the one Ramon would preach at Mass.

Now, if you think Ramon's illness has slowed him down, you can't tell it from the way he says Mass. His masses have always been "slow," such reverence, such care, such prayerfulness, as though the words he has read a thousand times were fresh as flowers, and all his own, and a sermon spoken from the depth of his heart. "God fills us with love, just fills and fills us. Death cannot stop it." It's almost a mystical experience, or, as I told him afterward, "Your Mass is like a mini-retreat." I was like Harry thanking Dumbledore for all the life-lessons.

But Harry Potter's adventures are nothing compared to my trip with Chemo to Trascerros, the town at the end of the universe where Chemo's mother Rufina now lives. Actually, it's at the western end of Honduras, at the Guatemalan border, but, still, it did seem impossible, despite the assurances of Fidel, Rufina's companion, that it was "easy." We would go for her 51st birthday, July 30. Chemo at one point confided that he was afraid to go, but those were no doubt vibes that he was picking up from me. His latest report card wasn't helping, either. His math grade has dropped to 43%, with drops of 10 or more points in several other subjects. I told him, if this keeps up (I mean, down!), they'll make him repeat third AND fourth grade! But his teacher Juana Maria gave us permission to miss one day.

When Rufina and Fidel were beaten and robbed in their little house in Bonito Oriental some months ago, at the eastern edge of the country, they fled to Fidel's hometown of Trascerros. When they first called from there, I understood "Trasera," which means 'butt,' and I thought, that's a hell of a name for a town. When I finally located it on a map, I realized my mistake. "Tras-cerros," meaning, 'across the hills,' and, indeed, if it weren't for the mountains, you could see Guatemala from their house.

The final kicker to motivate us to get out of Las Vegas and hit the road was when the electricity went off for days, and no end in sight. "Chemo, we can do this anywhere." Seems the Chuncaya Pass, the twistiest, turningest, steepest--and loosest--part of the road near Morazan had had another collapse, the umpteenth, after the latest heavy rain; an avalanche of rock and mud pulled down a high-tension tower and at least 7 posts attached to it. Half the state of Yoro was without power.

In fact, the trip was pretty easy, if easy means only having to take two buses, one direct from Las Vegas to San Pedro Sula (5 hours) and another to Trascerros (3 hours), where Fidel met us at the bus for the walk to the house. First thing I did was ask about a birthday cake, and Fidel said there's a wonderful woman who bakes cakes on call. Then Chemo wanted a soda, so Fidel points us to a "Cantina"--I thought, now wait a minute, I'm not so sure I want to give my business to a bar. But as soon as we stepped inside, the proprietor introduces herself as Fidel's first wife! In fact, the whole weekend, family kept coming out of the woodwork, at least three daughters, all with their own children, two sons, including a Fidel, Jr., Chemo's age. We invited all of them to Rufina's birthday party. One big happy family--no rivalries or resentments anywhere. Well, Fidel is such a gentle soul, the very opposite of "macho," there's no offense given or taken. I did have a lot of questions, but, heck, it's none of my business. Meanwhile, we're organizing a soccer tournament when we come back in December with Chemo's brother Marcos. Fidel's boys vs. Rufina's boys.

One other thing. When we got to Fidel and Rufina's house, there was old Don Cruz! He's 92, and he's got all the family anyone could want back in Bonito Oriental, but they're just too "fancy" for him. So his "family" is Fidel and Rufina, and he did not want to get left behind. So, you see, they're doing something right.

I was so excited to see they had electricity in the house (they never did in Bonito), but it may have been my undoing. Maybe spikes and drops in the current affected my computer, because it's on the fritz. I am typing this at a cyber-cafe in Tegucigalpa, having just dropped off my laptop at Jet Stereo, where they have authorized Apple repair. Wish me luck. But that's why there are no pictures this time. And I apologize for any odd configuration this CASA takes when it appears on your screen.

When Harry Potter has his last conversation with Dumbledore, in some kind of Limbo, where he must decide whether to rest from his labors or return for the final confrontation with Voldemort, he asks, "Is this real or is it all in my head?" To which Dumbledore replies, "Of course it's all in your head, Harry, but why would you think that means it isn't real?"

You are all in my head, and you are very real. May we all be brave.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2011

2011-06-30T13:20:00.002-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2011

IF A BOUGH BREAKS...

Always check out The BEACON, please:
http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/110693-letter-from-honduras-fear (= June 2011 CASA)

Little Belkis is OK, let’s make sure we start with that, because you are not going to want to even imagine what happened to her. And I don’t, either, and I didn’t see it, thank God, so I’ll just say it. She fell out of a tree in Nueva Palmira and on impact the top bone in her left arm shot right through her elbow and out the skin. Now, you might ask, what’s a child that age doing up in a tree? But let’s deal with this question, what was she doing on the ground, and that was dying of a compound fracture, and loss of blood.

When Teresa Cruz came to my house with Belkis’ mother Paulina, who was in such shock she could not speak, they asked for help to get the child to Tegucigalpa. They had already been to Doctor Meme here in Las Vegas, and he had done what he could, but this was way beyond any resources around here. They thought they would have to wait till the next morning for the bus, but besides me, they pooled some resources (well, they got a “loan”) and managed to get a car to take them. It’s a seven-hour trip by bus, and maybe half that in a car, so thank God, because Belkis was still oozing blood, they said. And how scared was she?

At the Hospital Escuela, they put two pins in the arm, and, a couple of “clean-ups” later, they put on a cast. Panchito, her daddy, called on a borrowed cell phone that they were charging for the pins! I suggested he talk to the Social Security department for a reduced rate; he’d already done that, and was denied. So, he’s not poor enough? Good Lord, everybody in Honduras is poor enough! That, plus the extra days’ stay, meant they would need more money. Well, I couldn’t be chintzy, could I? But how to get it there? They’d already figured that out; Teresa’s daughter Miriam would take it. So I gave Miriam extra for her bus fare. Panchito, not to mention Paulina, was very grateful. But even I could come nowhere near the huge bill they were slapping them with, twenty thousand Lempiras! That’s over a thousand dollars. These folks don’t see that much money in five years! If they don’t pay, what? they take the pins out? In any case, Belkis is back home, a wonder of survival in a world full of menacing trees.

Nicho, 65, did not survive his tree-fall. In a freaky little storm that whipped up tornado-like winds in just minutes, one tree out of all the trees at the edge of the river where he was fishing, twirled out of its roots and fell right on him, killing him instantly. At least, one hopes it was quick. There was only one witness (and this, too, I beg you to forgive me for the picture it paints), Nicho’s grandson, little--tiny!--Oscar, just a year-and-a-half old. The storm came about 3:00 in the afternoon, and of course, it took a while before anyone missed them. And then the search, deep into the dark, lit only by the full moon, finally coming upon them way down the bank, the old man with his head smashed, Oscar just sitting in silent, paralyzed vigil. Oscar will never be able to tell us, I’m sure, but as I thought about it, I wondered if a scenario were possible where, as the storm broke, Nicho swept Oscar up in his arms, and then, just when the tree snapped, he threw Oscar to safety, lest they both be crushed....

If someone saved Oscar’s life, maybe it was his grandma Petrona, who “went to heaven” last February. Remember her, from the March CASA? She died in all splendor of family and friends and neighbors over the course of a month or two, the equivalent of Hospice care. Nicho was Petrona’s husband. My only photo of him is at her funeral, with a raft of red flowers in his hand. And Telma, their daughter, who managed Petrona’s care more than anyone, is Oscar’s mom. The suddenness of Nicho’s death broke everyone’s heart all over again, but we knew the routine. Another nine days of prayer and mourning, and with my new super-boots I fairly flew over the rocks and ruts back and forth every day to Paraíso, as opposed to the blisters I got during Petrona’s novenario.

You know, at first, I did not know who Oscar was. When they told me that Nicho’s “grandson” was with him, I naturally pictured a kid about ten years old. At the wake, I was looking around for a likely candidate, ignoring the baby that was crawling all over Telma. When I finally asked, she says, “This is Oscar.” I hope she did not see the look of horror--pity and horror--locked on my face. At one of the later sessions, I ventured my theory of Nicho saving Oscar’s life at the expense of his own, for whatever comfort it might bring.

Perhaps hardest hit by Nicho’s death was his youngest son Jacobo, 20, whose little--very little--wife was still in Yoro, recovering from a near-fatal Caesarian operation (where the hospital charged dearly for two pints of blood) that delivered their first child, a boy. Jacobo was sort of just wandering around dazed, torn by conflicting emotions, anxious for his wife, excited for his son, throwing himself on his father’s casket in sobs and tears. The baby grows up without grandparents. In fact, I rather hesitantly referred to Jacobo and his siblings as “orphans” now, maybe a little too literal a term, but I just wanted to touch the depth of their loss, our loss.

But there’s good news, too. Helen is 12! Handicapped daughter of Maricela and Juan Blas, and big sister to the bubbly Mariana Teresa, she does love cake. I have been so strapped lately that birthday celebrations have been put on hold, but I always promised Helen we would do it up right for her. We got the biggest cake you’ve ever seen, this time from Profe Flor, the principal at the school, who’s got this cake-baking gig on the side. Now, different from Carolina, whose cakes are dense and deep, Flor’s are fluffy and light--real dirigibles! Helen ate enough to get sick on--good for her! Being wheelchair-bound does little to inhibit her enjoyment at a party.

Speaking of party girls, do you like to be proved wrong? I actually think a lot of us do, you know, when we’ve misjudged someone, dismissing them, discounting them, even mocking them, only to find they are golden. I have come to expect and even enjoy the experience, as a chance to laugh at my own small-mindedness, and I get a lot of opportunities here in Honduras. Gladys, built like a jukebox but with the attitude of a supermodel (including plucking her eyebrows), makes an odd partner for the dirtiest man in town, literally, Marvin, the local mechanic. He’s usually sweating under a car or truck or even bus, black with grease and grime from head to foot, and she’s on the porch with a mint julep or something, in tight jeans and a bosomy top, entertaining bystanders with a voice like a brass band and a routine rippling with swear words and raunchy one-liners. Maybe she’s our version of Snookie, though I’ve never seen “Jersey Shore.”

So when the “authorities” threatened to send Wilfredo, the most popular teacher in the high school, off to some remote village in the hill country to make room for somebody’s cousin, Profe Flor asked for volunteers to make a protest visit to the superintendent’s office in Yoro. Marcelo offered his “busito” for transportation. When I saw Gladys squeeze her bulk into the van, I thought, Oh, Jesus, Wil’s case is lost.

But wait a minute! She was the key to the whole thing. They kept us waiting three hours, and when we finally got in, Señor Antonio Gundemero Hernandez was very properly reserved and formal. Then Gladys starts, and the place just lights up and lightens up. You see, Señor Hernandez is her uncle! He never loosened his tie, but pretty soon he was eating out of her hand. The rest of us were superfluous. Bottom line, Wilfredo’s staying.

We all had lunch at a crowded restaurant afterwards to celebrate, and Gladys sat at the head of the table and just played herself, dropping the Spanish equivalent of F-bombs all over the place, and she didn’t give a damn who heard her. I just wanted to hug her! She hadn’t changed, at all; it was me who changed, and I can never look at her the same way again. From floozy to phenomenon, that story. And it’s a story I’m telling everyone I talk to.

Some folks you always knew were gold, but you’re still stunned at how you had underestimated their shine, maybe took them for granted. Marisol was as big as Gladys and, yes, as loud, but she was a religious Sister, a missionary from Spain for 20 years in Honduras, till illness forced her departure, and then recently claimed her life. I knew her through Elio and Mema, whose daughter Felixa is a member of the same Order. I have a great picture of Marisol at Mema’s birthday party a few years ago. Chemo and I went to Tegucigalpa for his “annual” checkup (we missed last year, because of all the violence and turmoil in the capital), and Elio and Mema invited us to the final day of Marisol’s novenario, which would be in the same church where the poet Roberto Sosa’s funeral had been a month ago. At Sosa’s mass, there was a sort of indifferent feeling since no one seemed too comfortable in a church, but for Marisol, it was a real feast of faith and affection--and fun, including a slide show with music. Everybody had a funny story, which of course they cried all the way through. When I asked Mema why she didn’t speak, that’s what she said, her eyes glistening, “I couldn’t, too many tears.” Now, this service, you understand, was a parallel of sympathy to the “real” novenario over in Spain, but we sure did feel connected.

By the way, Chemo’s checkup was perfect. I knew it would be, but I did want his original doctor, Karla Andino, to see how he’s grown. And she’s crazy about him anyway. While we waited for the echo-cardiagram machine, we saw this tiny baby about the size of a Twinkie, getting his ultrasound. He already had wires and tubes all over him. The poor thing didn’t look like he could survive the exam, much less an operation.

Chemo’s heart is strong, but his math grades are on life support. He flunked the same quiz three times, 0 out of 20, and for the same reason. It was multiplication, three-digit numbers by three-digit numbers. Is that even fair? I get all itchy when I have to help him with his homework. Math was never my friend, and after high school, I never took another course. Chemo knows his times tables, but he was lining up all those subtotals crooked, and if the answer was something like 8326, he’d get 20,748. I finally got him a notebook “cuadriculo” (grid), to put a single numeral in each box. When I ask his classmate Dorisell, Elvis and Dora’s brilliant 8-year-old, if there’s going to be another quiz, she says, “Just for the ones who flunked.” The teacher Juana María is really doing her best to get Chemo through fourth grade. She tells me, “You know, practice with him a little more.” But she probably senses that I have no more aptitude for math than Chemo does.

As June 23 approached, Chemo’s grandma Natalia was nervous. It would be the first anniversary of her 19-year-old son Dago’s fatal accident when he grabbed a high-tension wire installing electricity in their house. “What will we do? There’s no money for coffee and rolls.” She wasn’t being coy, but I immediately assured her I’d take care of the expenses. In fact, I just shouted next door to Jacobina, the best baker in town, “Natalia will be in touch, OK?” And Jacobina, God bless her, did it all for “cost,” I just paid for the ingredients, which included 10 pounds of flour. When I suggested corn bread, too, Natalia just wanted to keep it simple, but then on the day she presented me with a pan of cornbread that she had Jacobina make just for me. (I took it home and ate half of it before I even told Chemo it existed!) That’s Natalia, staying gold.

The memorial itself was fine, including a cleansing, cooling rain right in the middle of the service. “That’s Dago blessing us,” I said. But you could sense there was a reticence in the little gathering. As gently as I could, I tried to suggest it was still OK to cry, and finally, at the end, the family clutched each other in a release of an ever-fresh grief.

For the first time ever, the Las Vegas celebrated “Youth Day,” with a gathering of at least 600 teens from 10 other towns. For the occasion, I put on a tee-shirt I had saved, a homage to Archbishop Romero, murdered by a Salvadoran death squad in 1980 for his outspoken advocacy of justice for the poor. On the back of the shirt is a quotation I had not even noticed before: “It is a caricature of love to think donations to the poor are a substitute for what you owe them in justice.” I looked at that and thought, Back to the drawing board! That’s all I do, is donate.

Dennis, the fragile, autistic boy in Paraiso, really has the same message as Romero, and he does not say a word. I would greet him every day on the way to Nicho’s novenario (and Petrona’s before that). At first, he would just come to the window. Then he came to the door, eventually outside, to touch my outstretched hand. And I would say, “Dennis, you come visit me,” but I never imagined him leaving the safety of his yard. Well, he just showed up! Again, not a word, he just drank a big bottle of Tang I offered him, and posed for pictures with his little brother Danny and sister Heydi, who had accompanied him. He even smiled. But, really, I was the one who was thrilled. As they left, Danny said, “He’ll want to come again, I know.” How about that? I wish I could be that brave.

I guess I should be on the barricades, but meanwhile just please let’s cradle each other in our arms, lest another one fall.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2011

2011-05-31T14:56:00.001-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2011

WHO’S YOUR BABY?

For my “voice” in The Beacon, see: http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/110256-dulick-april-2011 = APRIL CASA

Doenis, a 20-something on a drunk, snuck into the house and threatened Chemo with a hammer (MY hammer!) to steal the VCR/DVD player, but ran out when Chemo screamed. Eating supper over at Alba’s, I was blithely ignorant of the episode, wondering at Chemo’s lateness, till he called from Dora and Elvis’ phone, his voice trembling. “I’m scared!” I rushed home at once, berating myself for losing at the most basic duty of a parent, to keep your child safe. Chemo’s had enough scares in his life without another one.

Sure enough, the VCR was gone, the naked wire ripped out. “Big deal,” I thought. But then Dora, who had come over with Elvis, says, “Miguel, look, here it is, in the kitchen.” I guess Doenis got a little scared himself. Elvis rewired it that same night. But who could re-connect me with my son? He slept in my room for the first time in a long time, as we promised to take better care of each other. Santos, Alba’s husband, tracked Doenis down and told him, “You mess with Chemo, you mess with me. Got it?” No one’s seen Doenis since.

Nevertheless, Chemo got another blow when his sister Rosa called from Tocoa to say that their mother Rufina and her companion Fidel had been beaten up in a robbery at their house. Robbery? They don’t have ANYTHING, much less a VCR. The beating was probably frustration, and apparently another drunk or druggie. Rufina moved in with Rosa, and Fidel, at the urging of family in Santa Barbara, also went “home,” to recover. I thought I’d take Chemo right up there, to his mommy, but even that seemed scary to him, so I dropped the suggestion. I did wire some cash, to replace a cell phone and pay for medicines. Fidel wants Rufina to join him in Santa Barbara, which is way at the the west end of Honduras, while Tocoa is way to the east, and Las Vegas is in the middle. These would be endless loops if we were going to visit all of Chemo’s family. Of course, you might think I’m already in Santa Barbara, since the “Las Vegas” that shows up on Google Maps is a city by that name out there.

Meanwhile, May started with the annual patronal feast of the Holy Cross, a week-long religious observance, tinged with unsavory elements like the four all-night “dances” that attract folks like Doenis. But this year was a garden compared to last year, when there were three murders. The highlight of the week is the procession through town, with children carrying crosses decorated with flowers. In fact, the whole month of May features “Las Flores” (the flowers), a toy-like liturgy when children bring fresh flowers to the Virgin Mary. The kids walk on their knees across the chapel floor to the little statue. I know that sounds medieval, but the kids love it; it’s our version of Six Flags! We say the rosary, too, and some of the little ones are still learning the words; one tiny boy said, instead of “Hail, Mary, el Señor es contigo” (the Lord is with you), “el Señor es abrigo” (the Lord is an overcoat!). Now, really, is that so wrong?

Speaking of miraculous births, Manuel and Marta had their baby. Last month, I told how I had stumbled upon Manuel who I knew years ago as a child (“Lito”), now back in Honduras after years in the U.S. Marta was soooo pregnant, I couldn’t imagine a normal birth, and, indeed, when they went to the hospital in Yoro for the delivery, they ended up spending a whole week there, as the doctors debated Caesarian or not. I wasn’t even having the baby and I was scared to death; a Caesarian in that little, ill-equipped hospital could be a death sentence. And in our phone calls, you could tell Lito was beside himself with worry too, helpless as he watched his wife’s agony.

When Lito finally called at 1:00 a.m. with the good news, he knew I would still be up because I was actually at a wake. You see, folks were waiting at Purito’s house for his sister Rosa, who had died that afternoon very painfully of stomach cancer in San Pedro Sula; her sons were returning with her body. They didn’t arrive till almost midnight, so I was hoping to match this mourning with a new, little life. “It’s a boy!” Lito cried. “We’re naming him Manuel.” Another Lito. Normal birth? “Yes! We’re coming home tomorrow!” Normal! That enormous belly, that little woman, that big baby--THAT is “normal”! Women are incredible. No wonder even God wanted a mother.

I’m not a woman, but I am a big baby. I proved that with my latest tooth-hurtee. The biggest molar in my mouth, back and to the (lower) left, had been giving me fits for months, sometimes literally doubling me over in pain from my jaw to my feet. But then the pain would dull and disappear, and I thought I was in the clear.
Chocolate and other sweets seemed to set it off again, certainly a divine judgment, don’t you think? I guess this deterioration was inevitable, ever since the thing got a gold crown back in the early 80s. After one particularly screaming night, I begged Doctora Gabriela, the local dentist, to yank it out. Sensibly, she cautioned prudence, based on my history of heart disease. “Miguel, if an emergency develops, we’ve got nothing here for you.” So, after another cowardly delay of a couple weeks, I finally slipped off to Tegucigalpa. I kissed Chemo good-bye, certain I would never see his face again.

At Dr. Juan Handal’s clinic, he put me in the capable hands of Doctora Yvonne. I told her I’ve got a godchild Yvonne back in Las Vegas, “So I know this is gonna be OK.” But I did make a Perfect Act of Contrition. Dr. Handal kept popping in. “We can save that tooth, don’t extract it!” But, in the most confessional tones, I reminded him how we’d worked for four years to save one of my upper molars, only to end up pulling it, so.... “I see your point. All right, pull it!” With a heart patient, you have to be especially careful with the anesthesia, but when I kept yelping with every tug that felt like she was pulling my jaw off, Dr. Yvonne just kept needling more Novocain till my face was as solid as a radial tire.

Then she finally made a move I never even saw, and says, “That’s it.” That’s what? She held the pliers in front of my eyes with a tooth the size of a Volkswagen, the gold cap still glistening. I thanked her like I’d been Raptured. I could scarcely believe I was still alive, I wasn’t gushing blood, I wasn’t having a heart attack. I’m sure Yvonne thought, what a baby!

And Dr. Handal did not even charge me! I thanked him till I thoroughly embarrassed him, no doubt. I was out of there by 9:00 a.m., which meant I could attend the 10:00 a.m. funeral Mass of Honduras’ preeminent poet Roberto Sosa, who had died the day before at age 81. It was a coincidence that seemed a recompense for my erstwhile “courage.” The very first book I read in Honduras when I came here back in 1977 was Roberto Sosa’s “Los Pobres.” More recently, he took my young poet friend Carlos Ordóñez under his wing as his most promising heir. Carlos, in Brazil right now, obviously could not come back, so I wanted to “represent” him.

The funeral was rather lightly attended, so I sat right up front by the family. Let’s face it, Roberto Sosa was as suspicious of the Church as he was of any other “self-serving institution,” so the Mass was pretty much a formality. And, as if to prove its irrelevance, the priest did not even quote a single line from any poem. But I loved sharing that time in the presence of someone--and his family--that had formed my life here. There were more folks at the cemetery nearby, with tributes from colleagues, friends, and family. As the crowd thinned, I made bold enough to take his gracious widow’s hand and say, “Your husband inspired me to work with the poor.” At least, I hope that’s what I said. My lips were still numb.

Roberto Sosa’s best known line is so simple you barely notice its genius:
“Los pobres son muchos y por eso es imposible olvidarlos.”
(You can’t forget the poor, because there are so many.)

The poor are indeed many, yet always a surprise. Little Anjely’s parents from Guachipilin up in the mountains brought her to me, for help getting to Tegucigalpa, where she already had an appointment for open-heart surgery at the public hospital in Tegucigalpa. “How old is she?” Seven months, the size of a newborn, her lips already blue. I was afraid to look any closer, lest it break my heart right there and then, because I knew she would not survive, not a Honduran heart operation, and, with an empty hope, I knew she could not wait for the next Brigada from the States, due later in June. So I gave them what I could, just to ease the transition. About a week later, the mother called. “We just brought her back.” I did not even have to ask. To bury her.

I see the burials have begun for the victims of the Joplin tornado. This is another thing I had to force myself to look at, so miserable are the views of the devastation of what amounted to a flying tsunami. Pardon me if I link to my favorite story:

http://www.thepostgame.com/features/201105/after-tornado-lone-competitor-left-joplin-high

New statistics show that Honduras would be better off with tornadoes than the man-made mortality we suffer. There’s a murder every 43 minutes, or about a thousand a month, mostly young persons, teens and twenty-somethings. We are doing our part around here to keep the average up. Up in a mountain village some guy killed a family of four, the parents and two babies, one a two-year old, the other seven months, to avenge his own brother’s death. No one’s saying a word. Well, why would you report what you know to “law enforcement”?

When Chemo finally got his grades, he was passing everything, with grades in the 70s and 80s, except math, with a 60, passing but just barely and probably a little gift from his nice teacher. But good enough! We leapt on the opportunity to make a quick weekend trip to El Progreso and Morazán.

As my “girlfriend” Santa kept reminding me, we had not visited them in Progreso since “last year” (December), so I got the biggest cake in the store, to cover all the birthdays we’d missed, plus Mother’s Day.

The next day, Sunday morning, we boarded the bus for Morazán. Chemo pitched his little backpack in the overhead and headed for the back seat to catch a snooze before the bus pulled out. I bent into my prayer book and lost track of the time. After about 40 minutes the bus was still parked in the station, gradually filling up. Chemo comes up. “Where’s my backpack?” Nowhere to be found. I sort of panicked, since inside, besides some negligible spare clothes, was the portable DVD player I got for Chemo at Target last time I was in St. Louis. I had just restored it to him on Friday for his good grades (having confiscated it a couple months before for some misbehavior). We had the whole bus looking for it, and of course, as far as I was concerned, everyone was a suspect, till someone finally explained that it’s become a pretty common scam in Progreso. Someone waits inside the bus, spots an inattentive target, nabs their stuff, and walks off. You know, I had wondered at the woman in front of me, who had packed herself into her seat with seemingly every worldly possession in three huge bags. That’s what we should have done. But I did sort of feel like Jane Fonda when she rips her last stocking in “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?” We’re living so close to the edge, every “expense” is magnified out of all proportion.

On the other hand, I had sense enough to assure Chemo it was not his fault; I was not blaming him. It’s what I get for praying! But thank God it wasn’t my backpack, with my laptop inside. And in fact, what if I had seen the thief grab and go with the backpack, and I tried to stop him...? Let’s just say, my 43 minutes would have been up.

In Morazán, Fermin, Maria, and the kids quickly made our troubles disappear. Maria and daughter Esly were working on a big Sunday lunch spread; my contribution was to load ‘em up with a “six-pack” of 3-liter Pepsi’s from the supermarket. Then rumors start we’re going to the “beach,” the river outside of town where there are nice swimming “pools” that folks have made by stacking rocks around. It was wonderful. Of course, I, the wet blanket even when I’m dry, very prudently limited myself to just a 30-minute “dip” before I went to the shade on the shore and read my book, a commentary on the prophet Isaiah (“Comfort ye my people”).

Then, the TV broadcast of the grand finale of the national soccer championship, pitting arch-rivals Olimpia and Motagua, both of Tegucigalpa. Like Fermin and the family, Chemo’s all about Olimpia, while I back Motagua. We settle in for the game, with Maria again making wonders in the kitchen, just simple snacks with refried beans and fried tortillas and so on, and more cold Pepsi, of course. Well, Motagua won, 3-1, helped by an own-goal from an Olimpia player. But Chemo took it well. Unlike any sport in the U.S., these “finals” come every six months. So, “Wait’ll next...semester!”

Mel Zelaya made a triumphal return Saturday, May 28, greeted at the Toncontin airport in Tegucigalpa by his faithful “Resistencia” (resistance). Mel was ousted in a coup, you may recall, in June of 2009, with Roberto Micheletti holding place till elections later that year put in office Pepe Lobo, whose major concern ever since has been to reestablish Honduras’ credentials in the world community, in particular the Organization of American States. Pepe is of the conservative Nationalist Party, but he enthusiastically pursued amnesty for Mel’s record-breaking corruption and lawlessness, even running roughshod over court proceedings along the way. But he reasoned, we gotta do this, to get this all behind us. He never tired of promising Mel, “Don’t you worry, you’re coming back, I guarantee it.” It was politically astute, because it left Mel without a target. Mel, of course, was a Liberal, but with his ouster, the new, radical “Resistencia” was born, and Mel played them just like he plays his guitar, thus dividing the Liberal Party, whose mainline members recognized Mel’s toxic brew. And Pepe is jumping on the opportunity to extend his own party’s power. The latest is a bill he’s pushing through the Nationalist-controlled legislature to grant the Resistencia status as an official political party, which would divide the liberal vote and guarantee Nationalist domination in perpetuity. Just like Democrats in the U.S. salivating at the prospect of the Tea Party going third party.

And Mel isn’t helping. He’s lovin’ that Resistencia! A old Liberal Party hack was asked, “Will you be meeting with Mel when he comes back?” “Oh, he knows where our office is; if he calls for an appointment, we’ll be happy to talk with him.” What Mel really wants is another coup! Indeed, when some speaker at the airport rally on Saturday referred to Mel as “former president Mel Zelaya,” the crowd erupted, “President! President! President Mel!”

The vote to reincorporate Honduras in the OAS comes this week at a special meeting. Hillary Clinton, who would love to get this monkey off her back, is lavishing praise on Honduras’ for our “maturity” and “return to democratic forms,”
ignoring the fact that, besides Pepe’s toothy smile and buttery diplomacy, he’s been beating the hell out of the Resistencia, literally, with police, military, goon squads, you name it, for two years, every time they gather for a protest.

So a more significant return was Chemo’s brother Santos’ horse, lost for almost three weeks when Santos was up at his cornfield preparing for planting. Santos looked everywhere, getting himself sick in the process, following every lead, just hoping that it hadn’t been stolen. He didn’t know where Pavo was, but he knew why he ran off. “He’s looking for a filly.” Finally, word comes from a cousin he’s never even met, a middle-aged woman also, ironically enough, named Santos, that his horse is at her place way up in the mountains of La Peña, where she does in fact have a filly in residence. Santos and son Santitos rushed up there in record time, then rode Pavo back down. So we celebrated some special at supper that night. Cold Pepsi.

The rains are here. Folks are planting. That’s the hopeful part. Meanwhile, we still need each other. The tornado “season” is ending, the hurricane season is beginning. Hang on. If we are blessed, we can be poor.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2011

2011-05-01T02:09:00.001-05:00

Find me in The Beacon:

http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/109470-miguel-dulick-on-teacher-strike-in-honduras = APRIL CASA

And while you’re there, check out their excellent coverage of the Good Friday tornado:

http://www.stlbeacon.org/region/109853-path-of-destruction

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2011

A MONTH OF SUNDAYS

April was the cruelest month--certainly as far as weather is concerned. You had hundreds of tornadoes, while here our “summer” was perfectly still, hot as Hades, dry as a bone, dust inches thick, the air as heavy as an overcoat, the smoky mountains just a blur, a blood-red moon. You could hardly call it “Lent,” which really means spring.

Doña Julia, my 92-year-old neighbor, had the longest Lent. In fact, she began her dying even before Ash Wednesday, when I grabbed my camera to snap her last “glamour” shot as she enjoyed a fresh mango. She had risen briefly from her sickbed, but after this, she never got well. This is not to say that she was not still beautiful, even when she was just a shell of wrinkles, because she kept smiling, she kept talking, even joking, her mind sharp, her attitude patient and uncomplaining.

Every night you’d swear was going to be her last. Indeed, a variable group of anywhere from 10 to 20 folks would gather at the house, inside at her bedside or out in the corridor or street, in quiet vigil. Eventually, a kind of community formed, a society of Friends, a monastery at ease. Coffee and conversation, but mostly, as the Psalmist says, like watchmen waiting for the dawn.

You may remember I had said Padre Sebastian invited me to a group retreat that would meet weekly for several months. Well, his poor feet needed special attention, so he returned to Spain for treatment and returned to Honduras to another, shall we say, flatter, parish. So I thought I’d give the retreat a try by myself. I used a “contemporary reading” of the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius by Father Dave Fleming, who just recently died after a long illness. He had been my Superior during my years with the Jesuits, so I could hear his wise and guiding voice on every page. The nightly sessions with Doña Julia seemed the perfect time for prayer. I’d go over to the house about 9:00 p.m. First, I would kneel at her little bed, grasp her hand, kiss her forehead, brush her hair, and chat a bit. Then I’d settle in a chair to “meditate,” if I didn’t just fall asleep! One night I got there pretty late, and Juana, Doña Julia’s daughter-in-law (actually, granddaughter-in-law, I guess) looked in my direction and said, “She’s been asking for you.” She said it a couple times before I really believed it. I was blown away. After that, Julia became an inevitable presence in every meditation. She was there as God looked at the world with the desire to save us. She was there at Jesus’ birth, his life in Nazareth, his rounds of preaching, his agony and suffering, everything. I had to believe Dave Fleming would have said, “I wish I’d thought of that!” Doña Julia had become my retreat director.

So a death watch became everyone’s Long Retreat. She actually passed away Wednesday afternoon of Holy Week (April 20), as if to help focus our attention on the Paschal Mystery of Christ’s death and resurrection. Indeed, with her daily risings from seemingly impossible depths, she had given us a month of Easter Sundays.

That evening, in the middle of the church service, we heard something we had not heard in five months--thunder. A pale flash or two of lightning, and soon a welcome rain blew in. The temperature dropped, the air freshened, and you could breathe again. Still later, at the wake, when it came my turn to speak, I said the rain was Julia’s sign of her salvation. These are not tears, but kisses. The weather stayed cool the rest of the weekend, through Easter.

The hour of Julia’s burial on Holy Thursday afternoon found our loyalties divided. Or maybe divided is not the right word. Shared, is better. Because another family was burying a tiny preemie who had lived just 8 days, one of a set of twins. HIs brother was hanging on with their very young mom at a hospital in San Pedro Sula. So two cars, one crowd, headed to the cemetery in procession. Once there, little Angel Gabriel was buried with the other babies in a special section, a knoll, right at the cemetery entrance, and Julia was taken to her spot farther in. And then began the novenario, nine days of prayer.

Not all delays are so fruitful. The teacher strike finally ended after three long weeks, and the kids got back to class, but just for a week, before the Holy Week “vacation.” The teachers piled on the work, to make up for the lost time, and every day came another quiz or test. When the government announced not only deductions for any teacher who missed work during the strike, but two-year suspensions for teachers who had actively protested in the chaotic marches in Tegucigalpa, I called my best friend Fermin. “Fermin! Are you on the list?” “Miguel, I’m on every list.” I’ve never heard him so sad. “This is the end.” A lot of people just follow like lemmings, but for Fermin it’s a matter of justice. He did say that his supervisor in Yoro had told him they would protect him, because of his, really, lifelong, commitment to the cause. And subsequent “talks” between the unions and the government are “negotiating” the sanctions.

Another voice for justice, though half Fermin’s age, is the poet Carlos Ordóñez. Just before the strike ended, when the violence had subsided, Chemo and I made a quick trip to Tegus to see Carlos, who is working on an advanced degree in literature in Spain, with side trips to Brazil, where he works on documentary films with his fiancee Ursula. He was in Honduras just for 10 days, so we had to act fast, since we had not seen him in over two years. He’s been a published poet since the age of 16, and Chemo, amazingly enough, just loves the movie Carlos and Ursula made about a legendary Brazilian poet (who died just after the filming), so I very much wanted to encourage Chemo’s cultural enrichment, you know. We used the excuse of Carlos’ recent birthday to invite him to lunch. He was so gracious, and he obviously read my mind (I’m his biggest fan!) when I kept asking him about his latest book that supposedly was scheduled for publication a year ago. “I brought you a copy.” Still unpublished, it was a bound Kinko’s copy, but very elegant. Consisting of 30 prose-poems, it seems a masterpiece. Any attempt of mine to translate anything for you is whimsical, at best, Carlos invents a lot of his vocabulary (you can see little roots of familiar words peeking out), and even ordinary words lose their moorings in so dreamlike a vision. Yet the themes, as I say, are justice, truth, and peace. When I asked him how he followed the news of Honduras abroad, he said, “I just read the newspapers online--and believe the opposite!”

After lunch, Chemo wanted to show Carlos the dodg’em cars. But we discovered, in another corner of the arcade, another fascinating “game,” the self-service Guitar Hero gig. Chemo was a rock god, for fifty cents a tune.

During Holy Week, when there are so many homecomings, I sought out the mother of Manuelito (“Lito” to his friends) to ask for any news. Last I knew, he was still in the U.S., having successfully made it across the border some years ago after eight tries. “He’s back!”
she told me, deported actually, living with his wife and two girls in nearby Sabana del Blanco. So I went to find him.

This re-connect was inspired by my friend Seth Felman, who emailed me out of the blue a couple months ago after we had been out of touch basically since he graduated from high school 30 years ago. We became buddies--along with his family--when I was substituting at Wydown Junior High in Clayton. Then I joined the Jesuits, and we lost touch. But I was so thrilled to find Seth again that when I heard that Lito was back “in town,” I was not about to let the opportunity pass. Turns out Lito spent part of his time in St. Louis, where he admired, among other things, the Gateway Arch--which he called "the rainbow”--without realizing you could go inside it up to the top. In fact, he loved everything about America, and I told him, I’m sorry we kicked you out; you’re exactly the kind of person who belongs in our country. He had even begun the paperwork to attain citizenship, but, no good, good-bye, get out. As much as he longs for “the good life.” and had had his lovely house built with the money he sent down here, we all agreed that he should stay now, since every day brings more news of migrants slaughtered like pigs at the Mexican border by gangs, and his pretty wife is very pregnant with their third child. I asked, “When’s it due?” She says, “Well, today, actually.” But, as of this writing, the little bugger is staying put.

Another reconnection is proceeding apace. Olvin, who got shot in the left elbow last December, has winced and yelped his way through physical therapy and can flex his arm again. His goal is to get strong enough to get a job, he hopes, at one of the big sweatshops in San Pedro Sula. My advice was, “Just don’t tell them.”

They say it’s an ill wind that blows no one any good, and so it seems your tsunami of killer tornadoes stirred up just enough breeze here to send more rain and some nice, cool weather. But I’m sure our own disasters are right around the corner.

Speaking of disasters, I thought I had a sense of humor until I saw the hats at the Royal Wedding. Who was the mad hatter, Tina Fey? Looked like insects caught in their hair. But I have to say all the little tributes to Princess Diana kept things in perspective.

I mean Diana’s heart for the poor.

Eric Greitens, a Parkway North grad, has been steadily building a reputation for a very big heart for the poor. You have to check out the link below to his book “The Heart and the Fist,” and even then you can hardly believe all that he has done, and all he hopes to do. He has even offered to send a member of his associates down here to help Las Vegas. He graciously asked me to help spread the word about the book, but his own accomplishments speak for themselves.

http://www.theheartandthefist.com/

Here’s a brief excerpt from Carlos Ordóñez’ poem “La Fiebre,” The Fever, straight from the heart (with the best I can do, translating it):

Hace frío en el pañuelo de sal
que una madre empapa en el cálix de la esperanza.

Hace frío en la orfandad
de una mano carcomida por el fuego de la penuria.

Hace frío en ese sueño
de profundo carnesí del que ningún inmortal volvió.

(It gets cold where a mother dips a rag of salt in a chalice of hope.

It’s cold when an orphaned hand is shredded by the fires of misery.

It’s cold in that blood-red dream where no spirit has found its way back.)

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2011

2011-03-31T22:09:00.001-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2011

Another couple of appearances in THE BEACON. If you want to see what this newsletter SHOULD look like--fitted and formatted and finely tuned, thanks to editor Donna Korando--check it out.

1) http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/108582-installment-3-from-miguel-dulick (= FEBRUARY CASA)

2) http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/109084-dulick-writes-about-petronas-death (= MARCH CASA)

"Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without" (Amish saying)

When the rotted frames came apart in my hand, I knew I had a new pair of glasses back home. When Natalia came running after me and handed me two pieces of something I did not even recognize--”You dropped your cell phone!”--I knew I had anticipated its demise when I bought a spare some months ago. When I returned from a visit to Nueva Palmira with the Legion of Mary and peeled off my cardboard boots, and the socks, and found my tender feet covered with dirt like snickerdoodles cookies dusted with cinnamon, I finally added “boots!” to my shopping list for Tegucigalpa, where I bought these Frankenstein shoes; they weigh a ton, but they are you-name-it proof, and now I could walk on the Moon, even a Super-Moon.

But that’s about as much of my life that resembles any order. When I accompanied Olvin and his father Teto to Yoro Hospital for his first checkup since being shot last December, the bus had to dodge an airplane in the middle of the road! There’s so much money in drugs (thank you, U.S.A.!), that even airplanes are disposable. Apparently, the night before, they had blocked traffic with rocks for a “landing strip,” set up flaming tin cans along the shoulders of the road, waved the plane down, disgorged the ton or so of cocaine into waiting pickups, doused the plane with gas from big plastic tanks, set it ablaze, and took off. By the time we were going through the next morning, the military and the media were in place, doing their thing. Imagine telling the doctor you missed your appointment because a plane crashed.

But we didn’t miss the appointment. In fact, as soon as we arrived, Olvin’s dad spotted the male nurse from Emergency who first tended to Olvin’s shattered left elbow in December. He led us directly to the doctor’s door and put us next in line. He looks at me, and says, “Don’t you remember me? We met at the AA anniversary in Las Vegas.” That’s a small world. It became even smaller when a poor woman with a badly disfigured jaw, whether from cancer or injury, whispers to Olvin to ask if I’m a “pastor.” Olvin, bless him, says yes, and she asks me to say a prayer for her. She could hardly talk, but I was really tongue-tied. I held her hands and said what I could, but I’m sure all the grace was going from her to me.

The doctor sent us over to X-Rays, right next to the single operating room in this tiny hospital. Olvin said, “That’s where they took me. I was crying, I was so scared I would die or lose my arm.” Then he glanced up, over my shoulder. “That’s the only thing that saved me.” He was looking at the big crucifix on the wall. I dared ask, “Was your father crying, too?” “Oh, yes.” I can only imagine. Teto was around the corner, but I asked them for a picture together.

In the X-Ray, you can see the big screw they put in there, and the Erector-Set hinge they fashioned for Olvin’s new elbow. The next step is physical therapy, available at the Hospital in El Progreso, because the arm is really pretty useless right now as is. “It’s gonna hurt,” I told him, “but you have to do it.”

We stopped at a little cafe for lunch, and when they piled Olvin’s plate of fried chicken with side orders of beans and rice, he frowned. “I’m not supposed to eat beans or rice till my arm heals.” I looked at Teto, Teto looked at Olvin, Olvin looked at his arm. “It’s healed!” we all said together. He dove in like an oasis in a desert. Imagine, two months without the campesino cuisine par excellence. That’s a “therapy” worse than stretching an atrophied muscle. I’m no doctor, so maybe there’s some sound reason for such a diet when a wound is fresh, but when Chemo got his chest cut open to fix his heart, I specifically asked the doctor, “What can he eat?” “Anything he wants!” (Of course, he didn’t want much, those first few days, when he felt like he’d been dropped from an airplane.)

I went to Yoro with Olvin and Teto, you understand, to be their expense account. But, believe me, it wasn’t a huge sacrifice. The X-Ray only cost 15 Lempiras, that’s about 85 cents! The biggest payout, as is often the case here, was the bus fare. And I gave them more to pay their way to El Progreso.

Olvin was very grateful. “I’ll come for a visit!” He showed up two days after the trip to Yoro. When he asked, “Where can I put my things?” this little cloth shoulder bag he had, I knew he’d be spending more than the afternoon. So I alerted Dora, who fixes our lunch, and she prepared a special meal that was super delicious. And the next day, and the next day. I kept trying to think of things to entertain Olvin, but basically he was happy to just sleep and watch TV. Visiting was just his way of thanking me. Chemo did sort of attach himself to Olvin like a new-found big brother. For supper, we all ate at Alba’s. And she of course treated him like family, too.

For the first time in months, I went to Tegucigalpa alone, without Chemo, so he wouldn’t miss any school. Of course, the day I left, the teachers went on strike. I love Chemo more than anything, but I do have to say, I get a lot more accomplished a lot more quickly when I don’t have to “waste” time on the Dodge ‘Em cars or extra visits to the mall. But his absence was fortuitous at least for one thing. No sooner did I arrive at Tegus than word came that Marvin’s girlfriend Lizeth had had their baby, a little girl. Without Chemo, I had lots of free time to help out. Lizeth, who’s only 16 (Marvin is 18), needed a Caesarian, so they had taken her to the special maternity ward at San Felipe Hospital, one of the nicer public facilities in Honduras.

Bottom line, Marvin was not allowed to see his baby till we went three days later for Lizeth’s release. The expression on his face after he saw her for the first time was priceless. Marvin’s a soccer player, and this child was his biggest goal yet. He comes out beaming, “I can’t believe it!” and then he says, “Now you go in!” That was the last thing I expected, but he handed me his pass, and I went in, gave Lizeth a gentle hug, and then I snapped one of the cutest pictures I’ve ever taken. Little Diani Estefani blinked open her eyes just in time for her close-up. Meanwhile, Marvin’s mom Karla came from work, and a cousin as well, who had come from Las Vegas to help out. While the nurses filled out the paperwork for dismissal, I walked Marvin to the cashier, where I paid the bill (1000 Lempiras, about $50, reduced by Marvin’s petition in the Social Security office from 1300 Lempiras). With all the help, there was no more need for me to stick around, so I packed them all in a cab and cautioned the driver, “Drive nice and slow, please” and went about my business, which included getting a short lunch at the El Patio restaurant, a tasty item called “la gringa,” a fat flour tortilla folded and filled with a creamy chicken and vegetable concoction.

I had taken “the boys” out the night before to Pizza Hut, to celebrate Marvin’s new paternity. Besides Marvin, his cousins Gerardo, Gabriel, Olancho, some new guy I hadn’t met before, Adriany, and Alec. Alec had sort of a permanent grin on his face, too, because, after 12 years of life, he’s finally met his father. I asked him once in Las Vegas if he knew his father, and he had to say he did not even know his name. That cut me to the quick, and I guess it finally pierced that man’s heart as well. Somehow Alec’s father got in touch a few months ago and invited him to live with him in Tegucigalpa, where Alec is now in sixth grade. That’s another miracle, because he was in class with Pablito and Chepito. Alec dropped at least one year, and Pablo and Chepito both dropped out completely after third grade. For the last couple years Alec was living with his mom in San Pedro Sula, making, we now see, real progress. And what is his father’s name? René Alexander. OMG! I suddenly remembered seeing Alec’s full name on report cards he would show me: René Alexander. All those years when he did not know his father’s name--it was his own name! I said, let’s pretend it’s your birthday so the servers will all sing to you. But of course I was kidding; they’d just sung at the table next to us, and that was embarrassment enough!

I got back from Tegucigalpa just in time. The teachers started crowding into the capital for massive protest marches, and all hell broke loose. A lot of teachers were wounded in clashes with police, and one veteran teacher, a 54-year-old woman, was killed when a local TV vehicle, blinded by all the tear gas, knocked her down, though some witnesses said she was actually hit in the face first by a tear-gas canister. When they showed the scene on TV, that’s what it looked like. Pepe Lobo, the president, who usually just smiles and waves at every crisis, has put his game face on: “They don’t know who they’re dealing with. I’m strong as an oak.” Well, you know, I haven’t seen a lot of oak trees in Honduras. He’s probably thinking of Wisconsin.

These annual wars between the teachers and the government are a plague. A conspiracy theorist might say they script it like the WWE. Corrupt union leaders whip up the teachers, the corrupt government unleashes the police, the corrupt media spike their ratings, and the status quo stays firmly in place till the next round. Japan has a nuclear meltdown. Honduras has a justice meltdown, filling the social landscape with toxins. There is a core of committed peace activists like a vein of gold in a dark mine, but they are swamped by self-interest. I look at Chemo, inching his way through school. If we lived in the city, would I pay for private school?

Natalia, Chemo’s grandmother, a woman immune to self-interest, would not tell me how sick she felt till one of her daughters-in-law, Dania, Marcos’ wife, parents of the new little Daguito, clued me in. I told her she must go to the clinic. “But they don’t have any medicine.” True enough. What good is a diagnosis if they have nothing to give you for it? She knew I would say, Let’s go to Doctora Rebeca, where we would pay retail. Natalia did not want to “bother” me. But I told her, you must go first thing tomorrow. “Caramba,” her favorite “bad” word. I looked around, “Who will go with her?” Dania, of course, volunteered.

The next morning, I caught up with them at Rebeca’s. Now, Rebeca is really wonderful; I love hooking up a woman with a woman doctor; they just click right from the start. Rebeca was alarmed by Natalia’s perilously high blood pressure (200 over something), and huge cholesterol count, not to mention the sugar in her blood. “This is diabetes.” We have no way of knowing how long it’s been Natalia’s problem, but Rebeca speculated that the recent “golpe” of her son Dago’s tragic death could have stressed Natalia into this illness.

Rebeca gave Natalia a bag full of pills and such, and a load of advice about...diet! And this won’t just be for a month or two, like Olvin’s strictures. This is for good. No bread or wheat, for example. That right there would kill me. I love toast!

It’s bad enough that these newsletters are often filled with deaths. So it’s really wicked when I have to “kill” someone twice. But I should set the record straight, because every life is worthy of its truth. Back in June of 2009 I reported the gruesome death of a young man I called Roger Cruz, nicknamed Pato (“Duck”), and I identified him with his obsession with his “milpa,” or cornfield. Well, I had the wrong guy. The other day the kids tell me that Julio just died. “Who’s that?” “You know, Milpa!” “Pato” was run over by a train at the Mexican border in 2009; Julio, the real “Milpa,” was run over by a truck in Tegucigalpa last week, and the two of them weren’t even related to each other. “But they looked alike!” I offered lamely. Yes, the kids agreed, they looked alike. Hence my confusion....

Because of the accident, Julio’s body was in the morgue for almost a week, while the family tried to arrange to bring him back to Las Vegas for burial. Folks here took up a collection to help, and I gave all I could. Finally, when Julio’s brother Javier in Tegucigalpa managed to borrow a car and fill it with gas, they purchased a simple casket for Julio’s quickly decomposing remains still in the police-issue body bag. There was no possibility of any wake or vigil. They would have to go straight to the cemetery as soon as they got here. Julio’s mother Bertilia, who had moved to Tegucigalpa with her son, and another sister or two, were coming too. They did not get away till nightfall, and it would be a long trip. I went over to the house of some cousins here about 10:30 p.m., to wait. I just sat there, the lumpy leftover of the Super Moon hanging in the sky, just overwhelmed at my stupidity that had lost this poor soul three years ago, only to find him again, too late. When they saw me dozing off from grief, a sweet lady said, “Can I fix you some coffee?” I didn’t want to trouble anyone, but I knew the rest of the little group gathered there would want some, so I said yes. We were just finishing the coffee, and rolls, when word came that the car had reached Victoria. So we headed up to the road by the cemetery, shovels and rope in hand. It was 1:00 a.m.

The car arrived, one headlight, dents in the side, coughing smoke, and when I bent in to thank Javier, I could smell liquor on his breath. But here they were. I hugged Bertilia, who had this stunned look, as if she never would absorb this blow. And she kept telling me, “Miguel, pray for my boy, with candles. Please, a rosary and candIes.” It felt weird that we were conducting this burial under cover of darkness, like grave robbers in reverse. But when they lowered the plain wooden coffin into the immaculately etched grave and asked me to say a prayer, I said there is no shame in what we do. There was no other way, this midnight run. Julio is precious to us and to God, and nothing changes that.

Then, as suddenly as they had come, they were gone. I promised Bertilia we would pray, and I finally realized why she was so anxious. The kids told me the next day that none of Julio’s family here in Las Vegas goes to church, so they wouldn’t be having any Novenario, much less with rosary and candles. But that didn’t stop me. I gathered whatever kids I could a couple days later, and we went up to the cemetery, rosary and candles in hand. An unlikely choir, to be sure, but we prayed for about an hour, and then shared the Cokes and snacks we brought along. Ah, Julio, rest in peace.

As practical as the Amish may be, the saying above does not apply to people. Their claim on us does not “wear out.” Nor is there anyone we can do without.

We are just finishing our annual retreat with Father Jack Barron, who comes every year and travels from village to village for a couple months. It’s a little thing, just two days basically, but when you see the folks scattered in knots of shade on the hillside in silent prayer listening for whispers from God, it reminded me of the “Didache,” the oldest Christian liturgy.
“Even as this bread was broken and scattered over the hills, and then was gathered and made one; so let thy church be gathered from the ends of the earth, into thy Kingdom.”

I’m picking up some pieces myself. I’m so stretched out, I’m borrowing money from the Legion of Mary, for heaven’s sake! That’s when you know you’re poor. But it’s actually more cash-poor, till I can get to the bank and get my pension. Hey, I DO still have a pension, don’t I? Hello?

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2011

2011-02-28T21:01:00.002-06:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2011

INCEPTION

Petrona’s end was mercifully quick. Last month, I told how she had had a leg amputated a couple years ago, due to diabetes, and had recently taken a turn for the worse when her other leg deteriorated beyond repair. I showed you her beautiful face, her eyes already blind. That was the last “flattering” picture I could take. When they said she could no longer swallow, I didn’t want to think about it. It would be a horrible end: she would starve to death. It would take at least a couple weeks, probably. So I went every day, the twenty-minute or so walk, across the bridge, over to Paraíso. Lots of folks did, including family from La Catorce, where Beto the blind boy lives. Petrona was his aunt. Then they said Paulino her father had already bought her casket in Victoria. That seemed so final, I didn’t want to think about that, either.

But there still was beauty. Petrona was so uncomfortable--her back was killing her--that the only help was to physically hold her. “Sit me up, please,” was her code for this intimacy. Her daughter Telma was primary, but a sister, a neighbor, even men, cuddled her like a child. I wondered if even I might get a chance, it was so sweet a duty. But I just took the pictures, knowing how much they would mean.

Her final days coincided exactly with Paraiso’s annual fiesta, celebrating the Patron of their little church, Our Lady of Suyapa, Suyapa being a poor village on the northern coast of Honduras where long ago fishermen found a seemingly miraculous image of the Virgin Mary carved in a piece of driftwood. Now, usually a town’s fiesta includes lots of games, like an eating contest, competitions like climbing the greased pole, and soccer matches--and drunks. It’s a big money-maker. But this time, the word went out: with Petrona’s illness, the only celebration would be prayer. A Mass with a visiting priest from Panama, Padre Luis Carlos (Padre “Lucho”) was dynamic and enthusiastic. That was in the church; everything else would be at Petrona’s house. The celebracion for the feast day itself, February 3, went long into the night, and we all watched Petrona carefully, lest we overdo it. But she would weakly raise one arm with every song, in time with the music, as if directing a choir. And when it was over about 11:00 p.m., she insisted, with the little strength still available to her, “Otro canto, otro canto.” (Sing another song.) So we just kept going. You know what, every time you went over there, morning, noon, or night, to sit with Petrona, five minutes after you got there, someone was offering you coffee and rolls. And for the big celebracion, when Petrona kept us singing late into the night, the women had prepared delicious and plentiful nacatamales.

That was Thursday night. When I went on Friday, she looked bad, gaunt and frowning. But on Saturday she was sleeping like a baby, curled up with her pillow, silent and serene. On Sunday, it was my turn to preach at the morning service in Las Vegas, and since in the gospel reading Jesus called his disciples “the light of the world” and “the salt of the earth,” I mostly spoke about Petrona. It happened to be Super Bowl Sunday, though that was not much of a distraction around here. In the afternoon, when Beto came from La Catorce, we went over there. And now, for the first time, I saw the signs of imminent death, Petrona’s featureless face, unblinking eyes, and short, gasping breaths. About 6:00 p.m., I invited Beto to supper over at Natalia’s. While we were eating, word comes that Petrona has, in fact, died. Simple as that. Her timing was perfect, because I realize I can go home and get my chairs ready to haul over there. Indeed, as soon as Beto and I got back to Paraiso, they were revving up a truck, worst driver I ever saw, but we got here and back with my 33 chairs, while others were carrying benches from the church. Twitter could not have spread the word faster, as the house and yard filled with mourners. Actually, we used her grandparents’ place just next door, an ancient barn of a house, where Petrona, now in her casket, lay in state. Somehow it fell to me to give the eulogy. I just said that Petrona had become the true Patron (‘patrona’) of the feast this year, and we would never be the same. We stayed all night.

Her burial Monday afternoon was simple, but the strain of final separation brought howls and wails from daughter Telma and son Jacob, whose young wife is expecting their first child very soon. Then the novenario began, nine days of prayer. Paraiso proved its salt and light once again; there was more active participation from folks than you ever see in Las Vegas, telling stories, comments on the scripture readings, dialogs, and of course, songs. But with the month or so of constant care, the exhaustion did not disappear till about halfway through, when folks had finally caught up on their sleep. The nine days ended and we took all the flowers and wreaths and the cross to Petrona’s grave, where I offered a group picture.

My oddest memory of Petrona’s final days was something just so dumb I’m embarrassed by it. I got blisters on my feet! The road right now is so hard and dry, studded with stones and sprinkled with little rocks like broken teeth, and the cheap hiking boots I got at Target in St. Louis seem to be soled with tissue paper, and I’m going over there, often twice a day, so I practically cripple myself with these blisters. Here I am almost eight years in Honduras and I’m still a tenderfoot! But I guess I had it pretty good, compared to Hector Manuel from Terrero Blanco. I had no feet, but he had no ass--donkey, that is. He and his brothers bring firewood to sell, usually loaded on their animals. Hector showed up the other day with the whole load on his own back, a 90-minute trip down the mountain. His donkey had suddenly up and died. I don’t even use firewood, but I buy it for the folks cooking our supper. When I saw Hector, bowed and trembling under the weight, and sweating like a...donkey, I wanted to relieve him immediately, but I had to send him off down to Natalia’s by the river. Once the delivery was made, he drank at least half a gallon of the cool water I provided from my fridge. I’d really love to buy him a new donkey for a thousand Lempiras (about 50 dollars); not only does he have epilepsy that we treat with a steady diet of Phenobarbital, but his father is Renan, the stinkingest drunk around. The trick will be to keep Renan from selling the donkey for more drink....

Chemo and I went to Tegucigalpa for one last fling before the start of school, if you can call three days in the dentist’s chair a “fling.” Dr. Juan Handal was the soul of kindness, as always, but once he checked us both out, we needed three other dentists, all women, to get all the required work done. Besides needing a good cleaning, Chemo had a several cavities, including one right between his two front teeth, an especially sensitive area for drilling; but he did not resist or complain or squirm. Believe me, he was braver than I, who needed a root canal. My last root canal began a five-year odyssey that was only finally relieved when we yanked the tooth a year ago. So I was not encouraged, professional as the dentists were. And they were drilling through a 30-year old gold crown in what ultimately was a futile attempt to get to the “root” of the problem. They plugged the hole, and Dr. Handal said to come back in two weeks if the pain returned. So I thought about it. I’ll be a fossil before I go back! Cured or not, I can’t afford a repeat; even with Dr. Juan’s generous discount, the bill ate up over half my budget for the whole month.

Nevertheless, we rewarded ourselves with a nice supper and a trip to Nova Centro, the vertical mall I mentioned last month, the one topped by the Bumper Cars, which shook the rest of my teeth loose. And Angelica gave me a Valentine’s present, a new shirt. She says, “After all that pain, I got the brightest color I could find, to cheer you up,” a flashy Jell-o orange. It worked!

And then, school started. Chemo is in fourth grade, outstanding in his class, literally. He’s 16 surrounded by 8-year-olds. But his teacher Juana Maria makes no mention of the anomaly, unlike some other teachers I’ve heard about that actually make fun of their bigger students. The schoolwork has ratcheted up some, with lots more reading and writing, as you would expect, but Chemo is holding his own. Helping him stay focused are his nieces, nephew, and cousins who just returned from 3 months of coffee picking. And they all started school the next day, some for the first time. If I had anything to do with it, I am very proud that I’ve kept up the drumbeat to get the kids into school.

I’ve had so many dreams lately, and I’m not sure I can blame them all on “Inception,” though that’s one disturbing movie. The dreams--nightmares, really--are about Chemo, chasing him and losing him. One dream was on a train. I saw Chemo get on board, and I got on and then suddenly through the window I saw him outside on the platform, as the train started to move. I run through the cars to get out and suddenly there’s a big, padded bench across the aisle; the train is only 2 cars long! No way out, and I wake up. Another was on a Boston bus that kept taking wrong turns, when I was sure I would meet Chemo at such-and-such a stop, and the bus just kept going farther and farther in the wrong direction. Another episode had me in St. Louis, rushing through the buildings along Market Street starting with Kiel Auditorium and the Post Office and Union Station--somehow these were all connected with hallways and corridors, with Chemo just out of view as doors folded closed. It did not seem that Chemo was trying to get away, he seemed as lost as I was, but I could not catch up to him.

Now that the coffee picking season is over, we got our first look at little Dago, Daguito, born in El Transito last December to Dania and Marcos, big Dago’s brother. And now that everyone is home, Natalia is asking me to plan the six-month anniversary celebracion of Dago’s tragic death, actually six-and-a-half months by now. She wants it very simple, a rosary and a Scripture reading. Some relatives will be coming in from the hills above Sulaco, where Chemo still remembers some of his childhood. Daguito, of course, is named for his uncle, and we cling to that, we plant that faith deep in our mind, how life goes on, even if we must repeat it to keep our hope alive. Dream on.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2011

2011-01-31T10:42:00.004-06:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2011

I’ve Seen the “Light”!

The Beacon, to be precise. “Letters from Honduras” is now a monthly feature in The Beacon (stlbeacon.org), a fresh and friendly alternative to the Post-Dispatch, staffed by some of the Post’s best writers, including Dale Singer, whose wife Merle has long encouraged me to get “published,” ever since we were colleagues at Parkway North High
School.

Two articles have already appeared:

1) http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/106723-miguel-dulick-talks-about-how-he- came-to-live-in-hondurs

2) http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/107674-honduras-at-christmas-2010

The first is a sort of introduction to my life in Honduras; the second is excerpted from the January ESTA ES SU CASA. And now I know why writers thank their editors. Donna Korando has a real heart for Honduras, and I have to say I had tears in my eyes when I saw the latest “Letter,” even though I wrote it, so lovely was the presentation. And there’s another Parkway connection. Brian Marston (class of ‘91) recently joined The Beacon as “Web Developer,” so you know any technical issues are in good hands. And of course Brian came with me to Honduras the summer of ‘94.

If you do click on, go ahead and subscribe to The Beacon. It’s fast, and it’s free!

The Christmas holidays over, Chemo, his brother Marcos, and I headed for Tegucigalpa to renew my Honduran residency visa and to send Marcos back home to Tocoa. We knew the bus out of Victoria would be super crowded, so we got up real early and managed to catch a ride from Las Vegas on a pickup loaded with big coolers of fish caught in the lake up in the mountains of El Zapote. Judging by the smell, I’m not sure how fresh the fish actually were, but we loved the ride because we got to Victoria just as Reyes was pulling his big bus out of the yard. A group had already gathered. “Go ahead and get on, folks, no problem.” So we all got seats, but by the time the bus left 45 minutes later, there were people standing in the aisle. And we stuffed more riders in all along the route.

As crowded as the bus was, nevertheless I kept testing my little Internet modem on my MacBook squeezed on my lap, and it never worked. It had stopped working in Las Vegas, and I assumed the signal had weakened or something. But now I had to conclude, the signal can’t be bad over half the country, it’s gotta be the modem after all. But I had just bought this modem last May--and they’re not cheap!

In Tegucigalpa we had to make three trips to Migración to get my visa, and the office is a long, expensive cab ride away on the outskirts of town. First, it was still closed for the holidays, and then they sent me back twice to the bank to get just the right wording on the “Constancia” that declares I have faithfully “converted” (not “changed,” not “exchanged”) at least one thousand dollars every month into the “moneda nacional,” that is, Lempiras. Of course, I had it easy compared to the long lines of folks trying to get (Honduran) passports. The government had just announced that they were rationing appointments all the way till March or April because they’d run out of the little booklets. Except for “emergencies”--so EVERYBODY has an emergency.

Next was my driver’s license. Now, this is something I get only for use in St. Louis, when Teresa Jorgen lets me borrow her car. It says “International” right on it, but fortunately I’ve never had to actually show it to a cop, who would probably handcuff me on the spot. I mean, to the untrained eye, it doesn’t look “real,” you might say. It’s no fun taking Chemo and Marcos to the big city, only to stand in lines. But for the license, the best advice was, get there early (by 6:00 a.m.), because their materials are rationed, too. They only issue about 200 licenses a day. So I crept out of the hotel before dawn, leaving the boys fast asleep, and I asked Angelica, who was already setting up her candy and snack cart out front, to keep an eye out for them when they came down for breakfast.

First, you get an eye test. “Read the smallest line you can on the chart.” Without my glasses, “What chart?” Things moved pretty quickly after that, especially since I was the first in line! and so I was out of there and back to the hotel before Chemo and Marcos had even waked up.

We had a few other items on the agenda: the new modem, of course, but also to celebrate Mema’s birthday. So we invited her and Elio to lunch at their favorite restaurant, Mirawa. We even got her a little cake at the mall. Nobody said anything, but it was exactly two years ago that Mema celebrated her last really “happy” birthday, just before she and Elio had to abandon their house and livelihood (a little supermarket) to escape death threats from a mafia gang demanding extortion. This little party at Mirawa was one of the happiest times I have seen Mema since then. Most people like to relax after a life of hard work, but Elio and Mema loved keeping busy and have had nothing but health problems since their enforced “retirement.” And I appreciate their counseling Chemo and Marcos on the virtues of school, hard work, and sociability.

Speaking of social, I thought a look-see at a new mall would be just a courtesy call. “NovaCentro” is a weird thing, a mostly vertical mall hidden behind an office building; we didn’t even notice it till a cab took us down an alley for a shortcut back to our hotel. So we checked it out, riding the escalators up one level at a time. Just a thicket of boutiques, you know, those gaudy eyesores that cater to the hip and rich who, in a country as poor as Honduras, seem an absurdity, if not an outrage. Up and up we went, just marking time, I thought, till we could get out of there and go to Pizza Hut for supper with some kids from Las Vegas who work in Tegus. Suddenly, at the top, something was different. The escalator drew us into a cave-like darkness broken up by flashing lights, loud noises, carnival music. Oh no! We had reached The Game Level. I would have grabbed the boys and run, but the escalator would not stop; it delivered us right into the middle of it. And there, right there, a spacious rink of Dodge-‘em cars. Chemo and Marcos lit up like Roman candles. Nirvana! They could barely believe their eyes. They even got me in on one round, something I hadn’t done in 50 years. Oh, sure, it was fun and I didn’t begrudge them that, but how long would the money hold out? “Again!” “Another!” “One more time!”

If I spoil Chemo, it’s only because he’s alive! Chemo got his life-saving heart operation in September 2008. And now look at him--ramming dodge-’em cars without a care in the world! So, another “appointment” we had was to check in with Ron Roll and the latest “brigada” of doctors and nurses from the U.S. who had come to perform open-heart surgeries on about 22 little boys and girls. Sponsored by Helping Hands for Honduras (http://handsforhonduras.org/), they come four times a year. Ron moved the brigada this time to San Felipe Hospital, a quiet, park-like facility specializing in recuperation therapies, more serene than the busy, stressful hospital where Chemo was operated on. We wanted to see Dr. Christian Gilbert, too, who helped Chemo’s big sister Rosa last year (fortunately, she could be treated with medication rather than surgery), but he was just starting his fourth operation of the day. Incredible! Just waiting four hours when Chemo was in surgery drained me of every physical, psychological, and spiritual resource I had, unknowing whether he would emerge alive or dead, and here was this wonderful doctor, this Christian, four little lives passing through his skilled and caring hands, in one day! When we spotted a couple pacing and looking anxious in the waiting room, we asked if it was their little girl in there. “Oh, yes.” Chemo immediately whipped up his shirt to show them his scar. “Don’t you worry--she’s gonna be just fine!”

We kept returning to the Dodge-’em cars, and it didn’t help that Wednesday was “double day,” when you get two rides for the price of one. Believe me, I didn’t spend any less, they just “dodged-’em” more. But, you know, it’s probably the last time Chemo and Marcos will be together till next Christmas, so what the heck? Although, they did start complaining about headaches....

Nevertheless, early Thursday morning we dispatched Marcos to Tocoa on the Mirna Bus, a “direct” route, if you can call it that, winding its way through the middle of the country, up to San Pedro, then along the coast to the far north-east, a nine- or ten-hour trip, but all on pavement in a grand, Mercedes Benz-manufactured coach. Meanwhile, Chemo and I climbed aboard our rattletrap old yellow school bus for the trip back to Victoria/Las Vegas, sort of a moto-cross route through the backwoods and mountains, scenic enough but a real shake-down. We kept in constant contact with Marcos via cellphone, in case there would be any problems. Half the time he’d answer the phone with, “I was asleep.” Oops, just being cautious... We got home hours before he did, but Rosa greeted him with a hot meal, so we were all relieved.

It wasn’t till we got back that I finally realized what had really happened a few days before Christmas over in La Catorce, about a mile from Las Vegas. This is one of those rare times, I suppose, when my little horror story pales in comparison to your tragedy, the massacre in Tucson. That violence seemed to come from another world, as the news filtered down here, second-hand, unseen, untorniqueted, as it were, by a brush-fire of commentary fanned by un-facts. But our violence was confusing, too, as snippets about a shooting got pieced together. Two shot. Men? teens? boys?--attempting to rob a soda-delivery truck about 10:30 at night, December 20. Attempting to rob a truck...with machetes? is that possible? when the drivers have guns...? One dead, one badly injured, probably going to lose his arm. For some reason, I couldn’t get the names straight, till I finally heard “Olvin.” It was Beto, the blind boy from La Catorce, who was telling me some of this, and when I anxiously wondered if it was an Olvin I knew, Beto said there were two Olvins in La Catorce. And, being BLIND, he could not identify him from a picture I had in one of my photobooks. Finally, someone came by who could say, yes, that’s Olvin, in the photo, that’s him, the one who was wounded. And a “Marvin” Zelaya was the dead one--at least that’s what I thought I heard. Never heard of him.

Olvin and his best friend Selvin used to come to visit me on Sundays, along with Beto. But I hadn’t seen them recently; in fact, the last photo I had of Olvin was from 2005. But I printed it out, and went to La Catorce the next day. Despite the years, I recognized Olvin right away, but he did look somehow harder now than the little boy I first knew. His arm was bandaged like a mattress. He had almost lost it, his left; the bullet had shattered the bones, but they pieced things back together with a couple nails, or pins, at the Yoro Hospital and dozens of inner and outer stitches. The Hospital is expecting payment of 25,000 Lempiras, which is crazy, isn’t it? It’s a public hospital, half the stuff they see is gun shots. They charge for that?. Nothing was said about the robbery, or whether it was some kind of tragic mistake, wrong place, wrong time kind of thing. Making conversation, I ask, “How’s your pal Selvin?” Olvin looked at me as if I was holding the gun now. “He’s dead, he’s who was killed.” Shot three times in the back, while Olvin played dead. Oh, my God, no! How stupid, stupid am I? SELVIN Zelaya! Not “Marvin.” I instantly saw his broad, earthy face in my mind, because I had a picture of him, too. I turned to Beto, who was accompanying me, “We have to see his mother.”

But first I read Psalm 20, a prayer full of wishes, for Olvin from a prayerbook I had with me. I asked him what he did all day. Nothing. But you can read, right? So I promised I’d bring him a Bible, to pass the time.

I was surely nervous about visiting Selvin’s mom, Domatila, or Tila for short. What could I possibly say? Psalm 20 wasn’t gonna cut it. I sort of wondered if she blamed Olvin for her son’s death, or was maybe resentful that Olvin escaped and Selvin did not. But she was very gracious and fixed us coffee, though the loss is etched in her face. Hoping in the darkness, I feebly promised her a Bible, too.

Right now, no face is dearer than Petrona’s. Having already lost one leg to diabetes, she is waiting for what she calls her “journey.” It may not be long; she is in constant pain. Folks visit her a lot, first of all, because she has so much family, but even more because she is such a saintly presence. Her daughter Telma takes good care of her, but it’s hard. So we go and give what comfort we can to them both, and in turn draw deep from their wellspring of faith. She is Beto’s aunt, so we go each Sunday, just across the river in Paraíso. Last time, I had my camera. Stung by the “lost years” of any pictures of Selvin and Olvin, I thought, when the time comes, the family will want a remembrance. I aimed the camera right at her face, her eyes now blind. “Petrona, I’m taking your picture.” “Yes, I know.”

My best friend Fermin, who lives in Morazán, had told us, I hope we see you again before school starts. Chemo was all in favor of it, too. So we left one Monday morning, and Chemo was already telling everyone, “We’re not coming back till Saturday.” I was thinking maybe Wednesday, Thursday at the latest. But once we got to Morazán, we were on vacation. We had pizza, we had Chinese, we had loads of Maria’s fabulous foods, and every night Fermin would say, “Miguel, one more day, stay one more day, it’s vacation! Tomorrow we’ll....” ... go to visit his 22-year-old daughter Arlin and husband Freddy in nearby La Cruz, for a sweet evening that included the full moon. Or, we’ll go swimming at the hot springs park near Morazán. So we stayed, and stayed, and didn’t come back till Saturday, just like Chemo said.

Back from vacation, I did take the bibles to Olvin and Tila. Tila was nothing but thanks; she held it like a treasure. “This is good, this is so good.” And she made us sit and stay, she sent off her little girl to fetch some sweet rolls at the store while she made a fresh pot of coffee. Olvin read Psalm 20 for himself, rather haltingly; he quit school after sixth grade--I guess he’ll improve with practice.

Psalm 20

May the Lord answer you in time of trial;
may the name of the God of Jacob protect you.

May the Lord send you help from the holy shrine
and give you support from Zion.
May the Lord remember all your offerings
and receive your sacrifice with favor.

May the Lord grant you your heart’s desire
and fulfill every one of your plans.
May we ring out our joy at your victory
and rejoice in the name of our God.
May the Lord grant all your prayers.

I am sure now, O Lord,
that you will give victory to your anointed one,
and will answer from your holy heaven
with a mighty victory of your arm.

Some trust in chariots or horses,
but we trust in the name of the Lord.
Others will collapse and fall,
but we will hold and stand firm.

Give the victory to your servant, O Lord.
Answer us on the day we call!

A contemporary version of the same message can be found in a “speech” by Mark Tychonievich, longtime Latin teacher and coach at St. Louis U. High School. He recently died of the cancer he had been battling for years, but not before he recorded a thank-you to his students. My cousin Tim McKernan hosts a pretty crazy sports talk show on AM 590 in St. Louis, but he got serious one morning in tribute to “Coach T”:

http://www.insidestl.com/insideSTLcom/McKernan/tabid/61/articleType/ArticleView/articleId/5897/Remembering-Mark-Tychonievich.aspx

You know, when I saw that gorgeous full moon in January, I realized what short shrift I had given the last one, in December, the one with the eclipse. I seemed to scorn it in my last CASA, forgetting, I guess, that the moon, since my very first night in Honduras in 1977, has always been the link between me and you, the celestial Internet, as it were. We see it rise and wax and wane and shine together, the same familiar face that beams our affection from here to there and back again. So pardon my ingratitude, and keep us in view. It was particularly appropriate to enjoy the full moon at Arlin’s house. Years ago, when she was about 5 or something, the moon rose high behind Fermin’s house one night while I was sitting out front on the curb. Fermin tells Arlin, “Go tell Miguel the moon is out.” She runs through the house and out the front door. “Miguel! Daddy says look at the--oh! but there’s one on this side, too!”

May the moon’s light be always at your back--and your front.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2011

2011-01-01T14:59:00.003-06:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2011

THERE AND BACK

Neysi graduated Saturday, December 4, and Chemo and I took off the next morning for the town at the end of the universe, never to return...? Well, maybe I’m exaggerating.

Neysi, just 16 (Chemo’s age), completed a two-year “Bachillerato,” the next step after high school, and I was the only non-family member invited to the ceremony and dinner , as her official “witness.” It was a rich and elaborate display, and I have to say Neysi’s unbeatable smile lit up the evening. There was a bottle of champagne on every table; at our table, most of us toasted with Pepsi, but Elvis, Neysi’s dad, carefully re-corked the bottle to take home, flat, I’m sure. Some of us packed up our dinner, too, since we were the very last table served, while the rest of the graduates were already taking down decorations and stripping table cloths and folding up chairs.

Bottom line, it was an early evening, so when I got home I alerted Chemo, “Get packed, we leave tomorrow!” Off to see his mom Rufina for the first time since last January. The trip took all day, six hours to San Pedro, where we changed buses, another five hours to Tocoa, where Chemo’s sister Rosa, her husband Tonio, and their terrible-two-year-old Tonito, and Marcos, Chemo’s “little” brother, all live in a little village outside of town. We actually arrived just after dark, and I must salute Miguel the cab driver, who took us from the bus station to the creek we would have to cross to get to the house. Marcos, Tonio, and Rosa were there waiting for us, but Miguel, without even being asked, swung his cab around to shine the headlights right at the river and the carefully positioned stepping stones. So, despite my certainty that I would fall in and ruin my laptop, digital camera, iPod, and cell phone, I hopped right across.

Rosa, by the way, is better than I’ve ever seen her. She does not tire from a short walk any more, or from a long walk, either! The heart medicine is finally taking hold, I guess. Of course, she told us about a collapse about a month ago that landed her in the hospital overnight, apparently from super-low blood pressure. But it’s the TREND we’re looking at, you know, like Global Warming amidst the coldest winters in a 1000 years....

My idea of a big treat was to take everyone to lunch at Pizza Hut at the mall downtown. Only problem was, the Pizza Hut I was sure I remembered seeing there was really in La Ceiba, two hours away. So we had to settle for Wendy’s. Everybody but me got chicken. I had the burger, or whatever it was. At least there was lots of free ketchup.

Fortunately, there was no sign of the growing conflict between fatcat landowners and land-squatting campesinos in the area, both groups armed to the teeth. That was farther up the road, as it turned out. We wouldn’t be going that far, but we did need to complete the next leg of our expedition, to Bonito Oriental, where Chemo’s (and Marcos’ and Rosa’s) mom Rufina lives, along with Fidel (Chemo’s real dad having been violently killed years ago, an event that traumatized and broke up the family, eventually dropping Chemo into my lap) and Don Cruz, their “patron,” now 91 years old and still reading his Bible every day without glasses. They don’t have electricity, so they turn in with the chickens. As the day dimmed, Fidel calls to me, still fiddling with my computer with a close eye on the battery power, “We’re going in.” He meant, to bed. So we get all ready, Rosa with Tonito, Chemo with Marcos, me solo. I look at my watch. “O my God, Chemo--it’s 5:30 p.m.!” trying to whisper so I don’t offend our hosts.... I listened to my iPod till the battery died, and I still wasn’t sleepy. But, as the saying goes (?), down with the chickens, up with the chickens. I jumped out of bed at the first sign of light. Rufina was already up, stoking the fire for coffee and “fritas,” sweet corn fritters.

I took our annual photo of Chemo and Marcos side by side, hoping always that Chemo will catch up to his little brother’s height (Marcos is two years younger than Chemo); but no such luck. Chemo has grown a foot since his operation, but, darn it! Marcos just keeps on growing, too.

Rufina, who turned 50 in July, surprised us with the news that she had just been confirmed, with a group of teens a fraction of her age. I was thrilled, especially since, in Las Vegas, our new pastor told our very disappointed Confirmation candidates they did not seem really prepared for the sacrament, so they’d have to wait. Rufina now reads her Bible too, but with a little cheap pair of reading glasses.

Rufina’s accomplishment only made me even more eager to meet (or re-meet) her pastor Fr. Jack Donald, a Jesuit I knew years ago when I first came to Honduras. The Casa Cural was just up the road from the house. When Don Cruz cried, “There he goes!” on his motorcycle, I jumped up and walked over to say hello. Jack invited me to stay for lunch, and the wonderful cook Maria Julia, was as gracious as she could be, and so was Father Gus Fernandez, who, like Jack, is originally from California. Gus did not remember meeting me all those years ago, but he treated me just like his best friend. Father Jack had written a little memoir that Rufina had (he gave a copy to each of the confirmands) and so I said please sell me a copy. “O Lord, sell? These are gifts!” And that’s exactly the way he describes his experiences as a missionary in Honduras for 40 years, as a gift. I told him, You’re my hero, because, of course, I heard about him many times over the years.

The next day, Rufina invited me to come along with her to the priest’s house to re-charge my cell phone and laptop. Father Jack wasn’t there, but it seems it’s a long-standing arrangement, because Maria Julia was expecting us and pointed me right to a strip of outlets. Gus peeked in, “Stay for lunch, there’s always plenty,” but we didn’t this time.

Jack, with lots of help from generous folks back in California, just finished a beautiful new church in Bonito Oriental. And reports are, it’s filled to overflowing at Sunday Mass, which is at 7:00 p.m. Rufina does not go, because, I mean, that’s way past their bedtime....

Then began the return trip, another excursion in itself. First, to El Progreso, where we threw an all-purpose birthday party--this time “catered” by Pizza Hut--for all the big days we had missed at Santa’s family since our last pass back in August. That included Santa’s mom Argentina (“Tina”), Santa’s daughter Yuly, and little Joel, Santa’s youngest, whose actual birthday it was, and we threw in cousin Catalina’s little Jorge, who had recently passed the one-year mark. Santa, you may remember, is my foul-mouthed “fiancee” who plans another feature of our wedding every time I see her, and swears like a sailor if I hesitate to agree. It’s become more of a joke than ever now, and the whole family roots us on like a RAW match.

I took advantage of the high-powered Wi-Fi at the Hotel Victoria in Progreso to download a free movie rental iTunes was offering; I chose “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.” Have you seen it? Knocked me out! I didn’t know they could still make movies like that. Don’t even tell me there’s any other competition for the Oscars. Of course, it’s the only new movie I’ve seen this year. Meanwhile, Chemo and Marcos enjoyed a late-might dip in the hotel pool.

Then, to Morazan, for a couple days with Fermin, Maria, and the family. They are always so happy to see us, and the feeling is mutual, making the long gaps between visits that much harder. The big national championship soccer game was up for Friday night TV, so I said, Let’s get pizza! The pizza at Mario’s in Morazan is even better than Pizza Hut. So Maria and I take her car downtown and--Mario’s is closed! I thought, this is crazy, it’s the biggest pizza night of the year! But, I’m afraid, it’s closed closed, as in, out of business. I guess my infrequent visits couldn’t keep them afloat. But, undaunted, we darted off to the Chinese place, another favorite treat, considering they give you portions the size of a Gulf oil spill for such a cheap price. Back home, the kids had to readjust their taste buds, but a lot harder to swallow was Olimpia’s defeat in the final minute of extra-time. I really didn’t care, but Olimpia is Chemo’s favorite team, and he lives and dies with their fortunes. I tried to console him by pointing out that the owner of the team was doing something even better than a measly soccer championship; he was running the annual “Teleton” that raises funds for the free rehabilitation centers around the country that he founded. He has to thank a lot of phonies for their publicity-enhancing contributions, but the hospitals do great work for thousands of kids.

I always stop in and visit with Fermin’s mother Dona Antonia, who lives just a couple houses down from Fermin. We’re chatting about all and sundry, including recipes for pig’s feet and chicken feet, and she says, “I’m going to make you a snack.” Usually I make a point of not reacting when something strange is put on my plate, but this time I almost jumped out of my chair, screaming, “O my God!” It looked like a plate of tarantulas--on “a bed of rice,” as the Chez Puque might say. I immediately apologized for my outburst, though it clearly delighted Antonia. I finally regained my composure. “Chicken feet, right?” She saw me looking around the yard for any feetless chickens. “Don’t worry--these are store bought.” Well, good for that, because I can’t imagine anything filthier than a “free-range” chicken’s feet, considering they spend most of their time strafing cow poop, horse poop, any poop poop. OK, the moment of truth--I had to imagine something else--I picked one up and so gingerly pecked at it I could have reversed course at any moment. But it was actually pretty good. Tastes like chicken, as they say. Chicken feet are mostly knuckles, of course, in a glove of skin and muscle that cooking renders quite...edible.

We got back home to Las Vegas on Sunday, December 12, the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. The image of the Virgin Mary with native Mexican-Indian features that appeared by some miracle on the rough cloak of the peasant Juan Diego four centuries ago still guards the poor and alerts the rich that God is near. It’s the perfect pre-Christmas celebration, because, after all, the “lady” in the portrait is pregnant.

If I said someone stole Chemo’s “haypon,” what might you think was missing?
A) his MP3 player
B) his soccer ball
C) his winter coat
D) his harpoon

The correct answer is A). “Haypon” was Chepito’s spelling of “iPod” when he texted me that they had snuck up on Laito, always a prime suspect, and got the player back. He was listening to music in his house, with the earphones, so he didn’t hear them coming, the front door wide open. There may have been a little struggle--they’re not WikiLeaking every detail--but suffice it to say Laito got mad; he was going to sell it in Victoria. It’s not really an iPod; it’s a “Creative” Zen X-Fi 2 player, with a touch screen, no less, a gift from John Newsham, and I would have hated to lose it. Chemo had stashed it under his mattress, but Laito has a sixth sense for portable objects.

Speaking of WikiLeaks, a long report from 2008 about President Mel Zelaya by the outgoing ambassador Charles Ford to his successor Hugo Llorens showed up online. Charles Ford was the least diplomatic diplomat I’ve ever seen, and he was always getting under Mel’s skin. In this he calls Mel a spoiled brat who never grew up because he never had to, he was always successful just with a wink and a ten-gallon hat; a corrupt money hog dedicated to enriching his family, a drug trafficker, a drug USER, playing the poor like a guitar, Hugo Chavez’ ventriloquist dummy. Keep him on a very short leash, he warned Llorens. Mel, unfazed as always, said, from his luxury-in-exile in the Dominican Republic, “Well, if I was so bad, why didn’t the new guy say something? why was he such a suck-up?” He’s got a point. Llorens was shocked, shocked, when Mel was ousted in a coup in June 2009, a coup Mel has always blamed on the U.S. “imperio.” And Pepe Lobo, elected 6 months later in a process the U.S. endorsed, is calling Mel’s bluff about returning to Honduras by opening every avenue for his re-entry. Of the controversy, he just says, “I guess they do those things.”

I got everyone all excited about the lunar eclipse, coinciding with the winter solstice for the first time since Shakespeare or something. The newspaper said it would start about 11:30. “Should we just stay up?” the kids asked. No, I said, go to bed and I’ll wake you--like Peter Pan at Wendy’s window. I was dead tired myself, but I dare not go to bed or I’d never wake, even with an alarm, so I just kept busy, reading, watching TV, fooling around on my computer, writing as much of this newsletter as I could up to that point (Dec. 21, you recall)--which is why it’s so damn long! I had already scared Chemo and Marcos’ grandmother Natalia half to death talking about the eclipse when she gave us supper earlier that evening. A lunar eclipse--go ahead, try to explain it to someone--is perfectly harmless and, like the joke about the Honduran astronauts who were going to land on the Sun, it happens AT NIGHT. But Natalia thought maybe it was the end of the world. “Caramba!” she kept saying. She assured us she’d be in bed, with the covers pulled up over her head. (I didn’t tell her the end of the world is NEXT December, 2012.) Eleven-thirty came and went, and nothing. Midnight, nothing. The night was crystal clear, though, and the full moon was directly overhead. Beautiful, but blank as a stone. Finally, about 12:30, I could see a little dent. I can’t get the kids up for this, it’s so SLOW! I waited till almost 1:30 when the strange red shadow had eclipsed a little more than half. OK, kids, showtime! Besides Chemo and Marcos, two of Chemo’s little third-graders friends were sleeping over. I threw open the bedroom door, switched on the light, and immediately had second thoughts; the kids were piled like cordwood in the two beds they had pulled together, twisted into their blankets like pizza rolls. But this was historical! What the heck? Three of the four actually got up (little Joel was dead, man), and we rushed up to the roof. There it is, kids! Look at it! They were probably sleep-walking more than anything, shivering in the cold. A half-moon, big deal, who hasn’t seen that? Yeah, but, you know, a full moon and a half-moon the same night, you never see that, do you? That’s the Earth’s shadow doing that--think of it! In thirty seconds they were back in bed, cocooned in their covers, fast asleep. Well, I tried. Myself, I stuck it out till the whole moon was a reddish bruise, like a swollen eye, and I don’t regret it, but next time, I hope it’s cloudy. Just out of curiosity, I asked the kids the next day if they remembered seeing the “event.” They said yes.... But I don’t think any of them will be mentioning it on their Facebook page.

Good thing “The Silence of the Lambs” wasn’t a Christmas story, because here it’s pigs, and they are anything but silent when they are slaughtered. Our neighbor Juana killed her pig first, the pig that’s been serenading me all night for a year. I was not sorry to see it go, but it’s hellish screams as the hired butcher repeatedly plunged a rough knife into its neck would alarm anybody. Juana’s two dogs, Pinky and Rambo, were lovin’ it, blood spurting everywhere. Its windpipe severed, no more screaming, but it’s still alive. The rest of the process is pretty much like a TSA “patdown.” You pour pots of boiling water on its twitching legs and shave all the coarse hair with a machete. After some of this, it really is dead. So then you cut off the head, string the carcass from the notch of a tree, and start dividing the bacon from the ham. The most popular portion is the leg. And believe me, you smell that roasting, you forget all about how it got there. The next day, December 23, was our pig, and Elvis started at 5:30 in the morning. I had just gotten up and was in the shower when I heard this Armageddon right outside my bathroom window. I knew immediately what it was, or I probably would have had a heart attack. I got dried and dressed as quick as I could and went out to watch. It wasn’t even dawn yet! I didn’t stay for the whole thing, just till Dora had stoked a big fire to be ready to render some of the meat she would stuff the tamales with on Christmas Eve. Later, lunch was, as you might guess, the blue-plate (or should I say, blue-glove) special, pulled pork.

“Midnight mass” was at 6:00 p.m. Christmas Eve. We had spent 9 evenings previous in the sweetest novena of the year, the Posadas, singing Christmas carols through the streets, visiting shut-ins, asking, as Mary and Joseph did 2000 years ago in Bethlehem, for a lodging (“posada”) for baby Jesus. Padre Sebas said the Mass. Poor old guy, he’s a wonderful priest and all, but he shuffles like the odd little angel Clarence in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” bad feet, you know. His sermons are a monotone and almost inaudible. I wanted to shout, Merry Christmas, you old Building and Loan! to get him going. He just invited me to join a group he’s getting together for the Long Retreat, done according to the 19th Annotation in St. Ignatius’ “Spiritual Exercises,” where, instead of 30 days straight, you meet once a week, for 6 months. Now, that’s a long retreat! But I’m really looking forward to it. It starts in February. Clarence or not, maybe I’ll get my wings!

We have a new Dago! Dago died 6 months ago, electrocuted installing electricity in his mom Natalia’s house. Just devastated the family. But his brother Marcos’ wife Dania was pregnant, and when everybody went off to pick coffee a month or so ago, we knew the baby would be born “in exile,” as it were. We were actually at Natalia’s house eating supper December 22 when the call came: baby born, healthy and happy, IT’S A BOY! “Then it’s Dago!” cried Natalia. Everybody had already agreed on the name months before. December 22 is also Alba’s birthday, sister of Dago and Marcos. So we called her right away. “Alba! Happy double birthday!” “What do you mean?” “Dania’s baby!” “Oh, yeah, it’s coming soon--” Little Dago was so new, even Alba hadn’t heard the news, and they’re all staying in the same house in El Transito! But the explanation was simple; Dania had given birth at a clinic in town and had not called yet. I was especially gratified, since I had been the one to break the news of Dago’s death to Alba, and now I could sing her this song of hope.

Dago would have been 20 on December 27, so Natalia asked if we could just say a rosary together on that day. A tiny group of us gathered before supper and prayed together, very simple, but I added one element. December 27 is the feast of St. John the Evangelist, whose letters are also in the New Testament. I read a little from the first one: “That which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have touched with our hands, that is, the Word of Life, we proclaim to you, so that you may share this Life with us, that our joy may be complete.” It’s about Jesus, of course, but you gotta think of Dago, too.

Mariana Teresa’s first birthday was another step toward completing our joy. A celebration of Life, she renews the memory of my sister Mary Anne, who died while Maricela was pregnant, and makes a nice little substitute for Teresa Jorgen (till she can return in person). They call her Mari-Te for short, and that’s all Carolina could fit on the cake, but she’s taking her first steps and speaking her first words, so pretty soon she can decide for herself what she likes for her name.

Presents can make any day a Christmas. In St. Louis last September, little Sarah Baker gave me a doll she made herself. I knew it had to go to someone special. When little Sarai came by with her mother Maritza for the first time in months, I knew she was the one. She loved the doll, of course, but without a couple operations that she got from Operation Smile (and she probably needs one more), to correct her severely cleft palate, she couldn’t have even smiled to show her delight. Thank you, Sarah Claus!

Christmas--or any holy time for anyone who loves life--is not limited to Christians or even “believers.” Sometimes Life reaches out to us even from a transient town like El Transito, or Las Vegas, not any bigger than the little town of Bethlehem.

Besides the “haypon,” John Newsham gave me the most amazing book, “He Became Poor” by Christopher A. Franks, a study of Thomas Aquinas’ economic teachings, if you can even imagine the relevance of such a thing from a 13th-century monk. But imagine my surprise when I discovered how St. Thomas’ version of poverty, as explained by the author, mirrored what I had found in my own experience in Honduras. For example: “Poverty is an uncomfortable subject for us. It denotes lack and insufficiency, and it seems to us a kind of violence. Poverty does indeed involve lack and insufficiency, but one embraces it, not in order to go hungry, etc., but in order to receive what one needs from others.” Indeed, “Poverty is a sign of our neediness--that we are created for communion.” And, by embracing poverty, we renounce the security and self-sufficiency that seem the “natural order” to us, when in fact the natural order is really the “divine charity,” God’s self-emptying, specified in Christian faith by Jesus (the “He” of the title “He Became Poor”), but a reality that blesses us all.

May 2011 fill you with that giving and receiving.

Bonus: Chepito’s 2010 “Christmas card.”

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2010

2010-11-30T14:33:00.003-06:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2010

A DAY IN THE LIFE

Victor, in his 50s, dropped dead of a heart attack. I was not sure who he was, but folks assured me that I had seen him often enough, an uncle of Dulis, 16, who keeps showing up from time to time after stints in the mountains. So I must have seen Victor when I’d say hi to Dulis, some time or other. Most of Victor’s family are evangelical, but his sister Teodora wanted to observe the Catholic custom of the novena of prayer. It’s a question I should be better informed on, no doubt, but I really don’t want to know if some Christians here discount the resurrection and hence scoff at prayers for the dead. We just did it, and somehow it all meant more than ever to me.

Against all odds, you might say, including Leon’s drunken intervention on Day Four. He’s the father of Pablo and Chepito, who were getting ready for their annual visit to Tegucigalpa with me. Chepito has been drawing more than ever, and such gorgeous tiles of color, like some magical palace over the rainbow. Here we are, at Victor’s novenario, myself preaching on Jesus’ words to love our enemies, and Leon wanders in, drunk as a skunk, and I just want to cry. But that’s my pain, my “sin,” if you will. More violent is the pain Pablo and Chepito suffer, to have not just some drunk for a father, but the TOWN drunk, always a display. Chepito’s answer to the ugliness of his family life is his art, transcendent in its detail and undiluted in its beauty.

Leon’s rant included the offense, “Hermano Miguel is taking my boys to Tegucigalpa and he didn’t even ask my permission.” True enough. But I did clear it with Irene, their mother, when she came to spend the night at my house, along with Pablo, afraid to go home to her drunken spouse. Chepito always goes home, and then works all night on one of his drawings. He is our John Lennon.

We had some fun in Tegucigalpa, though the boys did not seem real excited about anything. Mostly, we just ate. We arrived on Sunday, and ate at Chili’s before an evening Mass. We were all so tired, I thought, we’re not gonna make it to church. But I was Chepito himself who said, “Let’s go to Mass”--and he never goes in Las Vegas. So we went, and got back to the hotel, and without even taking a vote, we all just sat down and ate again, another whole supper, without missing a beat. The malls are all decorated for Christmas, but the enormous trees they put up are decorated with advertising! Somewhere, Santa is crying.

On November 2, I spent the whole day with the dead. It’s the Day of the Dead, or, more hopefully, the Feast of All Souls, and I just sat in the cemetery, listening to wonderful sermons I had downloaded from The Crossing Church in Columbia, MO, and halfway playing the role of a Wal-Mart greeter as folks came to trim their loved ones’ graves, place fresh flowers and “coronas” of artificial design, and maybe spread a little carpet of pine needles. Some of the graves are brand-new, like Nandito’s, the young man I mentioned last month who was murdered in Tegucigalpa when he would not be a gang-banger. Something extraordinary happened in the last days of his novenario; his grandmother Santos, where the prayers were being celebrated, listened to us delegados droning on and on about everything and everyone EXCEPT Nandito, and finally she just said, “I loved Nandito, and I forgive the boys who killed him.” She said more in 10 seconds than the rest of us had managed to “preach” in all week. She spoke so quietly I was not sure I heard right, but she said it again. “I hope they will be touched by God and their hearts changed.” There you have it; if you will pray for the dead, you will pray for the killers.

Suddenly my Internet went down, and it was a mystery. My plug-in modem worked in a couple neighbors’ machines, and conversely, their modem would not work in mine, suggesting the problem was precisely with my MacBook. I tried to intuit a solution, but soon decided I had to go back to Tegucigalpa to get the fix. I took Chemo, but I warned him we could not spend ANYTHING this time. In fact, I was down to my last twenty bucks, leaving very little wiggle room. I simply have to live within my budget, or all is lost. It has made me a monster, you could say, at least that’s how I feel as I turn my back on the poor. My “budget,” such as it is, is mainly committed to helping pay the grocery bills of Elvis and Dora, of Maricela’s family, of Chemo’s families (his brother Santos and Alba, his grandma Natalia), as well as frequent pick-me-ups for Pablo and Chepito, and Cristian and his wife and tiny baby girl. That absorbs all of my cash, and for all the poor who come down the mountains, I had been dipping into my “endowment,” that is, my savings. Well, that’s mostly gone now, and I had been burning the candle at both ends by credit-card charging whatever I could, supplies and such, in stores in Yoro or Tegucigalpa. So I’m Scrooge now.

The computer problem was quickly resolved, once the Tigo technician Carolina took a look. Chemo and I celebrated by going to the new “Harry Potter” movie. I don’t know how much you paid to see it, but it was “discount day” so we got in for about $2 apiece. I was enthralled--and scared; Chemo’s only comment was, “It was loud.” If it wasn’t Harry Potter, I could hardly justify spending a dime on myself; but, especially this part of the story, the end, really opens a chasm you either fall into or love your way out of. That final image of “Part 1”--Voldemort‘s seeming triumph as he casts his evil lightning into the sky--will haunt me till next July, when redemption gets a chance in “Part Two.”

Another expense I guess I should justify is the Beatles--“Now on iTunes!” I immediately downloaded “Sgt. Pepper.” A recent special issue of Rolling Stone magazine ranked the Beatles songs and judged “A Day in the Life” their “masterwork.” I think with all the stresses and strains right now, my emotions are closer to the surface, because I just burst into tears when I heard it again, as if for the first time. “I read the news today oh boy....”

Headlines in Honduras, all within 24 hours: a distinguished couple, an Italian expatriate and his Cuban wife who owned a motorcycle franchise, are shot to death, a dozen bullets apiece, in their Toyota HiLux on the streets of La Ceiba, apparently a case of mistaken identity by the hired killers, who were looking for a drug kingpin. We’ll go through La Ceiba next week to visit Chemo’s sister Rosa and his mother Rufina in Tocoa. Just outside Tocoa, landowners and “squatters” are at war over the African palms that abound there; at least 4 dead already, with reports of a “thousand” guns, including AK-47s, on hand. A dead teen is found tied into the fetal position and thrown in the river in Tegucigalpa in a cardboard box; shortly afterwards, two of his buddies are found dead in the riverbank weeds. Actual fetuses, 13 of them found around the city in trash cans and such in recent months, along with 36 other “cadaveres”--victims of violence or neglect never claimed by any family--will be buried in a big common grave, courtesy of the state, in a special section of the Divine Paradise Cemetery. That’s “how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall,” as John Lennon sang. For families that do mourn their dead, the city has begun a new program--Help to Go Home--to respond to the needs of the poor who cannot afford to transport their loved ones home for burial. If families can even be informed! Thieves tore down a mile of telephone wire--for the copper inside--in San Pedro Sula, where the dismayed police could only ask, “Didn’t anybody see this happening?” Some things you don’t want to see, even in your imagination, like the young worker who fell into the cement mixer at a concrete block company. At least we think he was young; the company is refusing all inquiries, no doubt because they have been cited repeatedly for safety violations. Back to La Ceiba, two brothers, murdered and stuffed in the trunk of their car. Now, this I did not have to imagine, I saw the TV report, as the family, summoned by the police, opened the trunk and leaped and spun in fear and dread as if stung by Voldemort’s lightning. “But I just had to look, having read the book.”

So Chemo and I spent Thanksgiving Day on the bus back to Las Vegas. Not a bad trip, until you realize it was a waste of time. As soon as we got back, I tried the Internet on my computer. Nothing. I wonder if “string theory” can explain this. It works in Tegus, it fires blanks in Las Vegas. The signal or the computer is just kooky enough that they are incompatible. But I had an out. Jeanette Sipp-White at Parkway South had given me a used MacBook in St. Louis to give away down here. I still had it, and, by golly, my modem worked just fine in it! (The computer seems to be a newer model.) So it is now my “home” computer. I mean, I know this is absurd, two laptops on my desk, one with everything (like my photos) and the other that works, with me bridging the gaps with a USB memory stick. I’m in the middle of nowhere and I’m hoarding computers! CRAAA-ZY! But thank you, Jeanette, and as soon as the signal straightens out, I’ll complete your donation....

Wouldn’t Thanksgiving be a lovely day for a graduation? Basically, that’s what happened here, on Friday, Nov. 26. Twenty-one ninth graders got their diplomas in a warm and happy gathering. I was invited as the “sponsor” of Milena, Maricela and Juan Blas’ second daughter--and second in her class, by the way. I had a heck of a time getting any good pictures, but she is a classic Audrey Hepburn beauty. As the kids came forward, accompanied by parents and then escorted back by their sponsors, their age, interests, and future plans were told. I loved Ronny’s “ambition”: he wants to be a “comediante.” And he’s not kidding! He’s our version of Gino (last name?) in my last years at Parkway North, an abundance of talent and showmanship and the perfect personality for entertaining. Gino’s specialty was these marathon performances of “Love Shack.” Here, Ronny was in every “show” the kids put on at school; in fact, he wrote most of them! Now, Milena has abundant talent, too, don’t get me wrong. But she is very serious; she’d love to be a doctor. Coming out of Las Vegas, who knows? She might as well try for astronaut. The expense would be, for her poor family, astronomical.

Speaking of infinity, did you see the WikiLeaks tsunami? Here, folks highlighted the “revelation” of exactly what I told you a year and a half ago: that the U.S. Ambassador Hugo Llorens turned a blind eye to Mel Zelaya’s president-for-life ambitions, indeed, encouraged him! Thus, the coup, the nuclear option, as it were, of desperate men came to pass. It contradicts Mel’s own wishful thinking, that the U.S. ordered the coup, always a popular victimology. Pepe Lobo, the current president, named by the ambassador as one of “conspirators” molesting Mel, just grinned: “No hard feelings. Heck, that’s just the way diplomats like to talk.” To his credit, he never takes the bait.

The coffee-picking season has begun, and trucks and pickups are daily loading with Las Vegans for Quebrada Amarilla. They’re paying 120 Lempiras a sack this year--that’s 100 pounds of coffee beans for about $6. Chemo’s brother Santos tells me he and the kids can fill about 7 a day, sometimes as many as 12 or even thirteen. Good money, I guess, and a Woodstock atmosphere to boot. They’ll be gone till classes start again in February.

And today they gave out final grades. I am so proud of Chemo, passing third grade, with an 84%, especially when I see some of his little companions falling behind and required to repeat, or drop out altogether. Chemo's "girls," his nieces Chila, Mirna, and Reina, in their first full year of school, passed, too, second and first grades. Oh boy!

The happiest of holidays to you all!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2010

2010-10-31T20:55:00.002-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2010

THE POOR ARE ALWAYS WITH YOU

Every time I gave a talk in St. Louis, I’d show pictures of Chemo and his heart surgeon and I’d say something like, “Imagine these doctors leaving their own children behind to come to Honduras and help my son--that is real love, don’t you think?” Then suddenly, at Wydown Junior High, I caught myself mid-sentence--I don’t know if the kids noticed my pause--and I thought, “O my God, that’s what I'M doing...!” That sounds pretty self-congratulatory, I know, but it cleared my mind. I was missing Chemo so much that I didn’t see the open hearts right in front of me, full of love.

Of course, it would be Wydown that tipped the balance--thanks to Debra Baker and other awesome teachers, the kids had had not one but two “Hat Days” (when students “pay” to wear a hat or cap); they collected a valise full of toys; and they just wouldn’t let me go. But it was the same everywhere. Tom Wehling’s eighth graders at MICDS had adopted Chemo almost as much as I did. Lisa Portell and Jeanette Sipp at Parkway South High had prepared my visit with World Cup precision, and eager, attentive students filled the theater during their “free time,” Academic Lab, and they are following up with special tee-shirts. And at Selvidge Middle School, Julia Buehler showed exactly why she was voted Teacher of the Year when she whipped up the troops in less than 24 hours for my “surprise” visit. Kim Hanan-West at Parkway North was in a class by herself. Her father had just died suddenly but she greeted me with a huge hug, “Oh, Miguel, how are your children?” She gave me money she had collected from hot chocolate sales in her classroom. “There’ll be more, when it gets colder,” she winked.

Maybe it helped this time that I began each presentation with a phone call, to Chemo or Pablo and Chepito, and had the audience shout “Hola!” all the way to Honduras. That brought things into perspective, how close we are, though far away.

Indeed, my biggest expense in St. Louis was calling Honduras at least twice a day. Well, first of all, I did miss Chemo, but I wanted Dora, who was taking care of Chemo, to know I was not taking her kindness for granted. So I’d call before and after school, along with frequent calls to Pablo and Chepito, Cristian, Santos and Alba, and Dionis, and others. At about a dollar a minute, the cost was high, but it did keep me focused.

Focused on friends and family. It was not just the “stadium” venues like schools that bespoke the power of love, but even more the intimate and individual relationships that make my visits so memorable. The gracious hospitality just overwhelms me. Teresa Jorgen was the constant companion, and more generous with her car than ever, if that’s even possible! If it was a “sacrifice” to leave Chemo behind, friends and family up in the States consoled me endlessly. You know, I probably ate more in a day than I’d eat in a week in Honduras, including a late-night run to “Five Guys Burgers and Fries.”

The whole world celebrated on my birthday October 12. Of course, most of the cheering was for the 33 miners getting rescued one by one in Chile. Like you, I bet, I watched it all night, till everybody was out. As someone said, it was a mirror-image of 9/11, the world’s attention riveted by a disaster in a tower BELOW the earth, where everyone got out alive this time.

But I have to say, it seemed as if a lot of folks were in even deeper holes. Every time you turned around, another gay teen, most notably Tyler Clementi at Rutgers University, had thrown himself to death like the jumpers in the Twin Towers. And the same question, how bad is it in schools where kids are killing themselves to stop the pain? Amidst the helpless feeling, a website emerged that promised some hope: It Gets Better, filled with video testimonies of survival (itgetsbetterproject.com). And maybe you saw the extraordinary video of Fort Worth councilman Joel Burns pleading for the rescue of our bullied children (joelburns.com). What if all politicians spoke this honestly, this compassionately, this briefly? For one thing, they’d stop torturing us with all their skunk ads.

I caught some things--besides my birthday--that I miss when I come in April. It’s usually just about impossible to get my family together, but we had built-in parties to bookend my visit, my niece Justyne’s 8th birthday just after I arrived and my niece Jaslyn’s first birthday just before I left. And Parkway North Homecoming. North beat Kirkwood, thanks to a gutsy 4th-and-goal play with about 5 minutes left in the game. (“We voted on it!” the coach said proudly.) I turned to principal Jenny Marquart and shouted, “I’m just as excited as the last time!” Speaking of Homecomings, Teresa’s challenged nephew Bryan, a junior at Lindbergh High School, dressed up and went to his Homecoming Dance in his wheelchair, and “danced” with the sweetest girl in the world, Lizzie, a friend since kindergarten. And Barb Kelley came in for a visit from France, just before the lock-down there with all the strikes protesting the End of the World, a little uptick in the retirement age from 60 to 62. Mark Williams snuck in, too, after two months abroad with his extended “family” in France.

Hoping for playoffs, I did manage to catch a Cardinals game, one day before they were mathematically eliminated. Father Carl Dehne took me to the early-morning Mass he says for the Missionaries of Charity (Mother Teresa’s nuns) in North St. Louis, where I could thank them for praying so faithfully and so fruitfully for Chemo. They loved seeing the photos of Chemo Before and After his operation. And since it had come time for Teresa’s little white dog Jo-Jo to go to Dog Heaven, we went very early one morning to Kirkwood Animal Hospital, where we shared a little prayer with the gentlest doctor you could wish for, Kathleen Hemler, and the staff, who had been caring for Jo-Jo for years.

Parkway North grads Randy and Jeff Vines, St. Louis fanatics, showed us their St. Louis Style shop on Cherokee St. (stl-style.com), where they were taking a logo tee-shirt order from Cam Mizell (North 1999) for his band in New York City. And another St. Louis booster, Tim McKernan, who heads “The Morning After” chat fest on AM 590 “The Fan,” invited me to call into the show; Tim is my second-cousin, but I like to say I’m his “uncle,” you know, ‘cause I’m so OLD, and he’s so young! It gave me a chance to boost my own love, Honduras, and compliment Tim for his admirable fairness with sensitive issues.

For my last supper, Rams treated me and Teresa and my sister Barb to Citizen Kane’s steakhouse in Kirkwood. But upstaging the fine cuts of meat was our server, Matt Krenz, who Teresa recognized from “American Streetballers,” the only film cast, shot, and scored wholly in St. Louis. Matt not only starred in the movie; he wrote, produced, and directed it! Maybe you saw it at the Tivoli last year. (Go to americanstreetballers.com to order the DVD.) It’s pretty ironic that my adios to St. Louis should so smoothly transition me back to Honduras. The theme of both the movie and our daily reality is the same: our common humanity despite the differences between us. Or, to put it another way, as Jesus said, “The poor are always with you.”

Coincidence welcomed me again in Tegucigalpa when I took my old Go-Phone to get re-tooled for use in Honduras. The technician and I started to chat, and I mentioned Chemo and his surgery, and he says, “That’s really something, my two-year-old niece just had open-heart surgery.” From the same doctors, it turns out, in town again for another brigada.

Big day for my return to Las Vegas. Dora had a delicious lunch, chop suey! Then we immediately went off to the Rosario Misionero, a daily visit during October to folks who cannot frequent church, but it includes prayers for every continent on the planet. I told them, this is what sustained me while I was in St. Louis. Then a final celebración of the novena for an 80-year-old woman who had died, which went on and on, but after a month away, I was OK, even though I had never known the woman. Then on to a wake for 26-year-old Nandito, shot by gang members in Tegucigalpa when he refused to join. Shot in the face; I took one very brief look. I did not recognize him (no one would!), though they assure me he was here last year during Holy Week, and I vaguely remember him at his grandparents' house in those days with all the other siblings from Tegus and San Pedro Sula. Then on to Maricela's, where I gave her baby clothes from Carol Stanton for little Mariana Teresa. And they looked at the photobook, they pored over it, which is appropriate, since they are featured in it so much! Then on to Natalia's house (Chemo's grandma), just to touch base, before eating supper at Alba's, picking up the routine as if we'd never left. Then back to the house (my house!) with Chemo and cousins Joel and Dionis, who I left to pick through boys clothes from Melissa Pomeranz and Laura Stanton, while I returned to Nandito’s wake, waiting for the prayer service led by the delegados. Funny thing: no delegados showed up. Finally, about 11:00 p.m., the crowd was getting restless, and the grandparents said, "Shouldn't we start?" It was so weird, I was the only one there, so I did the whole thing myself. And I didn't even know him! But I guess, fresh from a month in St. Louis, I knew what family is and what friends are, and what the love of God is. I just tried to think, what would Teresa say? What would Rams say? What would Barb say? What would any of you say?

So I guess you sent me back just in time.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2010

2010-10-02T01:06:00.002-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2010

I’M JUST SAYING...

I am in St. Louis (till October 20), and I will file a report on those adventures, but I thought I better keep my hand in, and remind us all of why I’m here.

Chemo finally got a report card! It took a month of teacher strikes to produce it (I guess SOMEBODY was feeling a little guilty...!). It was funny; at the parents meeting called by the principal Profe Flor when the unions signed a new agreement with the government, she explained that the kids would have classes on Saturdays to make up for the lost days, but, the good news was, their grade cards were ready. At that point, a few teachers raised their hands to say they didn’t have the grades ready quite yet. Like the joke about the Berlin Wall, guy takes his car to the shop and the wall goes up overnight and 30 years later wall comes down, goes to claim his car, mechanic says, “Right. Be ready Thursday.”

I’m smiling because Chemo’s teacher Juana Maria had his grades fresh and ready, and they were great! I was so proud of him. And he said, “Miguel, I’m going to fourth grade, and fifth grade, and sixth, and high school, and the university, too.” But it did make it easier to come up to St. Louis.

Chemo did not want to celebrate his birthday September 9, anticipating a big surprise when I return from St. Louis (which he refers to simply as “that”: Did you buy that yet?? he keeps asking when I call). But the sweeter side was his thought to share his day with Denis, an autistic boy in Paraiso turning 15 the same day; so we got a cake after all and traipsed across the river. Actually, I had told Nanda, Denis’ mother, that we would keep things very low-key, so as not to stress Denis, but when we got there she had all the little neighbors in the yard, ready for a party. Denis did stay inside and panicked some at the prospect of going public, so I tried to assure him he could be safe by himself.

Denis’ fear speaks for us all. You may have heard of the massacre in Tamaulipas, Mexico, of 72 would-be immigrants, gunned down in a barn by the “coyotes” who promised them safe passage into the USA. Thirty of them were Hondurans, and the news and returning dead (their coffins draped in flags, received by the president himself) threw the whole country into panic and despair. But it’s like what the firefighter said on 9/11 about the “jumpers”: “How bad are things inside the Towers that people are jumping out to certain death?” Because Hondurans don’t have to go to Mexico to die in droves. Just a few days after the massacre in Mexico, a gang beset a shoemaker business in Tegucigalpa and shot to death 18 out of 20 employees, marking their territory. The two who escaped helped police identify at least one of the killers who said it was “funny” how the victims just fell all over the place. Totally unrepentant--well, I guess you’d have to be! So, I’m sorry, America, but nothing will stop them, because they have nothing to lose.

But even in the whirlwind, there are carefree times. The Day of the Student was a lot of fun. Chemo at first did not want to go to the celebration (“I’m too big.”), but he had a good time anyway, especially when his little cousin Reina competed in the “modeling” show.

Then came Independence Day, September 15, with the raising of the flag at dawn. I could hardly believe it when Chemo jumped out of bed. But 20 or 30 points were at stake for attendance. The celebration was even more elaborate that the Day of the Student, including even a skit based on the Tamaulipas massacre. I hardly knew how to react.

The weight of such contradictions has dragged Maricela into depression, and we are all concerned. I suppose a full diagnosis would name her bi-polar, but we are hoping her appointment in El Progreso at the hospital clinic will yield some helpful treatment. Maricela is so dear to us all because she named her baby Mariana Teresa, for my sister Mary Anne and for Teresa Jorgen. When Teresa called recently and asked what she needed, Maricela said she would love a crib for the baby. We found Marcio and Chepe working on a gorgeous piece at their workshop. “It’s for a woman in Tegucigalpa, but we’ll sell it to you and make another one for her--she’ll never know the difference!”

Meanwhile, Chepito has been cranking out his own gorgeous art one drawing after another. The most beautiful is a cross of such delicacy that I call it Chepito’s Rose Window. The photograph does not do it justice.

I call Chemo twice a day, before and after school. He is thriving in Dora and Elvis’ care. I think I’m a little jealous!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2010

2010-08-31T14:29:00.004-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2010

SAINT-LOUIE-PALOOZA

Though it must surely pale in comparison with Ted Nugent’s current concert tour, “Trample the Weak, Hurdle the Dead,” I intend to make the most of my first-ever Fall visit to St. Louis, September 22-October 20. For one thing, it’s my birthday! Turning 62 on October 12 not only qualifies me for a little Social Security, but also means I will have outlived my father Michael Xavier Dulick, who died of a heart attack in 1976 (during Sunday Mass, no less, where the reading was from the book of Daniel, “Michael the Archangel will rise, the great Prince of your people”) at age 61. Regrets abound, I wish we had been closer; since he was a doctor, a general practitioner who made house calls his whole career, I have often wished I had followed his lead, for the help I could be in Honduras. But friends have celebrated my birthday in absentia for years; it’s time I joined them!

Speaking of angels, divine intervention may be required here in Honduras, just to get kids back to class. The teachers have been on strike for a month. Same old, same old. They march, the police beat their heads in, the media ignore the real issues. There is one new twist; parents are breaking into empty schools to give classes with “volunteers.” Mel Zelaya, the former president ousted in a coup in June of ‘09, is rooting on the striking teachers from his palatial exile in the Dominican Republic--anything to undermine what the government calls “law and order.” Word is, Mel is throwing cash around to keep things stirred up, but, hey! who is financing these “Back-to-School” folks? Under orders from the current president Pepe Lobo, the police are cutting the school locks off for them!

What are the real issues? First of all, the government has robbed the teachers’ pension fund--repeatedly. Mel did it himself, but it’s a non-partisan corruption. Then there’s the “minimum-wage” controversy. Public employees’ salaries are multiples of the minimum wage, which in Honduras means DAILY wage. Businesses want to change it to hourly, to short workers’ pay, hiring them by the hour instead of the day. So all the labor unions are marching, too. What are we talking about here? Crumbs! Fermin, practically at the top of the scale, makes about $500 a MONTH as a teacher. Some pimply-faced fryer at McDonald’s in Creve Coeur makes that in a week or so, just to stuff their iPod with more crap from Eminem. So you can imagine what some poor campesino turning the soil for a fat-cat landowner (or, as my mother, who by the way, lived to age 82, used to call them, “rich-bugs”) has to look forward to.

But the biggest issue is “privatization” of education. A law that the teachers already defeated twice--in 2004 and 2006--is back in Congress. It calls for, among other things, tuition in the “colegios” (or high schools) and university degrees for teachers. This is practically archeology! Thirty years ago, it was tuition that kept Wilfredo (who, by the way, turns 45 on October 12) out of high school till he was 25, because his family couldn’t afford it, when at last the law changed, and seventh, eighth, and ninth grades were “free” like kindergarten and primary school. Despite his age, Wil jumped at the chance to continue his education, and is now everyone’s favorite teacher at the colegio in Las Vegas. (A previous CASA talked about the Nationalist regime in Victoria trying to push him out of his job, because Wil’s a “Liberal.”)

As for university degrees for teachers, sounds reasonable, right? How far would an applicant get at Parkway with only a high-school diploma? But here, the need is so great, and the poverty so debilitating, that without teachers who had only the education they could get for free, thousands of tiny mountain villages would be utterly lost. Now, technically, the public university is “free,” but if you are from the campo, how do you get there? where do you live? how do you eat? Wilfredo is currently working on his degree, a class or two at a time, with costly trips to El Progreso every weekend.

Speaking of ancient history, when dear old Don Vicente Martinez died at the age of 80 a few weeks ago, it reminded me of my early years visiting Las Vegas. Don Vicente had the only car in town, a Jeep, and practically the only store. In those days, there were no buses, not to mention bridges, so every morning about 5:00 a.m. he’d take folks to Victoria for 50 cents apiece. We’d stand in the street in the pre-dawn light, listening for the motor--would it start today? Sometimes he’d crank and crank till it finally engaged and a sigh of relief would go up. Every now and then, after repeated failures, he’d come out into the street and call, “Gonna need a push today!” Of course, if it had been raining during the night, we’d hold our breath till word came if the river was too deep for the Jeep to cross. If it had gone up, maybe we could go later, once it had flowed downstream some. The store, emptied of its goods and shelves and display cases, etc., for the novena of prayer following his death, was full every day of mourners, my borrowed chairs providing only a portion of the necessary seating. Since then, it’s so strange to pass the place, the doors shut for the first time in anyone’s memory. His ancient truck, long ago abandoned to the weeds, still sits in the back yard.

Dionis (pronounced, believe or not, “Johnny’), we hope and pray, has a long life ahead of him I wanted to make his 14th birthday on August 17 a little extra special, to take away some of the sting of his brother Dago’s death in July. As nice as it was, with a big, luscious cake baked by Carolina, no one could forget Dago, least of all me. Every time I looked at Marcos, 23, I almost had to look away, so close does he resemble his brother Dago. But Marcos is married with two little kids. The littlest, Lindolfo, got so sick recently (poor thing, malnutrition more than anything) we had to get him to Dr. Wilmer in Victoria. But these little lives--who can put a price tag on it?

School may be out, but the doctor is in. Last Friday, a team of medics took blood samples of every kid under 15, looking for signs of “chinche” or “chagas,” an ugly little bug whose bite can lay dormant for up to 16 years--and then kill you, or reduce you to a paraplegic. Not too long ago, my friend Angel, who just turned 50, celebrated his amnesty from a bite he got 16 years ago. “I’m gonna be all right, now.” I was afraid I’d have to tie Chemo down like those dogs I talked about a few CASAs ago that got rabies shots, but he happily (?) submitted to the tiny prick in the forefinger, then squeezed out few drops on the little stamp of test paper. We kill a couple “chagas” in my house every week, but God only knows when results of the blood tests will come back.

Chemo got his teeth cleaned here, too. Travel to Tegucigalpa being a little chancy, what with teachers burning tires in the streets, rocks flying through the air, and rockslides from all the recent rains collapsing retaining walls and crushing cars, and underground torrents ripping sinkholes the size of a house in a boulevard, we took advantage of a “special” that Doctora Gabriela was running. Her drill wasn’t working, so she polished by hand, and gratified us further by declaring Chemo cavity-free. She’s so young, but I had to keep looking at her as she recalled the days when she was a little girl and she would play with the toys I used to bring down, especially the View-Masters. “That was my favorite!” You know, everybody loved them. Problem was, they’d wear out in a week or so of constant use. But, out of curiosity, I went online. They still exist, and, darn it, they’re still expensive. I thought by now they would at least have figured out how to mount the tiny pictures in something more durable than a flimsy disk of cardboard, and maybe make a viewer out of, shall we say, space-shuttle tiles. But I gotta pick up a few anyway, in St. Louis, especially since Gabriela herself has View-Master ready child.

Hey, I might as well go to St. Louis, since our pastor Chicho’s going to El Salvador! A couple of weeks ago, at the end of Sunday Mass, during which he preached a particularly passionate and heartfelt sermon about God’s love for the poor, he announced his transfer to what amounts to a desk job at the Jesuit Provincial’s office in San Salvador. That sermon, in effect, was his good-bye. Maybe the Jesuits are giving him a sort of vacation, after 12 years of two and three Masses a day, up hill and farther up hill, visiting a hundred villages at least twice a year, some places still accessible only on foot, an hour or two after you leave the car behind. And I was like a Dead fan, following him whenever I could if the village was within my access. What amazed me was, he always gave his all. I don’t care if the congregation was six women and eight kids and two old men, Chicho would preach like St. Peter on Pentecost, who was so excited people thought he was drunk! He is no doubt exhausted, but, desk job or not, they won’t be able to keep him in an office for long.

We did get one last chance to say good-bye to Chicho. A big event, already planned months before Chicho’s announcement, was held in Las Vegas just last Sunday, August 29. Padre Jaime, who is now the pastor, has been very actively promoting the so-called “Comunidades Eclesiales de Base” (C.E.B.s) since he became Chicho’s assistant a couple years ago. These are little neighborhood “churches,” seedlings, you might say, to foster the faith in a living community. Jaime wanted to get all the C.E.B.s together. “Expect f800 to 1000 people.”

O my God! He was way off. They just kept coming and coming. It was like Woodstock without the mud. At least 1500 folks swarmed in, doubling the population of the town. But somehow, we pulled it off. We gathered in Paraíso, just across the river, where there was coffee and rolls for everyone. Then we proceeded to Las Vegas, to the only place spacious enough for such a crowd, the grassy, shady yard of the school. (Thank God, we weren’t competing with classes--we used every bench and chair in the place, and half the classrooms.) A stage had been built and decorated like a Beyonce concert, Elvis and his band and the choir provided all the music, the kids dramatized the Gospel reading, the Bishop led the worship, using the occasion to formally announce Chicho’s new assignment and Jaime’s upgrade, along with Padre Sebastian, who will be the new assistant pastor. Chicho just beamed. He was looking out at the crowd, virtually everyone of whom he knows by name, taking pictures himself, and every now and then, burying his face in his hands, overcome, I guess, at the thought of leaving us.

After Mass, the food! Groups of women had cooked nacatamales for days, and their husbands carted them by the hundreds to the school early Sunday morning--in wheelbarrows! We thought, We’re gonna run out; but no, just like the multiplication of the loaves in the Gospel, “all ate and were satisfied.”

A more permanent departure was another young man about Dago’s age who died suddenly, Dixi, 23, recently deported from the United States. Dixi was staying with a couple brothers in San Pedro Sula, including Uvener, 20, who left home here in Las Vegas a month or so ago to look for work in the big city. Dago was electrocuted, you will recall. Dixi had a heart attack! At age 23, this should be impossible! Apparently, the doctors thought so, too. Uvener said they took Dixi to three different clinics after he collapsed in terrible pain. The first place gave him a shot. “He’ll be all right.” The second and third places, well, let’s just say the damage was done. They brought his body home to Las Vegas in an inexpensive casket he same night in a borrowed car. The family waked him in a torrential rainstorm, but friends managed to get the grave dug the next morning.

Unlike Dago’s death, there was not so much commotion, maybe because the family keeps to itself pretty much. But I had to think, How long had Dixi been sick? Was it a congenital disease, such as what eventually killed my father, or such as Chemo’s? Oh God! I prayed again in thanksgiving for Chemo’s operation. No one in Dixi’s family ever goes to church, but Reina, Dixi’s mother, after the delegados offered prayers before the burial, said, “You’ll come back for the novena, won’t you?” It’s a chance for Dixi to grow even in death, a seedling, as it were, for his own family’s “church.” We’re on Day Four right now, in case you would offer your own thoughts and prayers....

Included, one of Chepito’s latest drawings.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2010

2010-07-31T15:59:00.002-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2010

Nudges

Now I know how Martha felt. According to Luke’s Gospel, when Jesus came to her house for supper, Martha was flying around like crazy with all the chores; she even scolds Jesus for not chasing her sister Mary from his feet to help her. And Jesus so sweetly invites her--”Martha, Martha”--to sit with her sister and enjoy the feast Jesus has prepared for them. You might say, Jesus gave Martha a nudge.

After the whirligig six-week visitation of Chemo’s sister Rosa and her 2-two-old Tonito at our house, during which I had played the Martha role, Andy Kwok (Parkway North 2003) came to calm us, like Mary focused on “the one thing necessary,” the grace we can be for one another.

And he came with the perfect book, “Nudge,” by Cass Sunstein, now the controversial Information “czar” in the Obama administration; but this book is simply charming. Its theme is

better decisions prompted not by a law, a threat, or a slap, but just with a “nudge,” a little lift that respects and even enhances one’s freedom, like putting the salads and fruits first in the school cafeteria line. Andy hadn’t even finished the book, but he already knew his mission. In fact, he told me the group of friends from his church that were sponsoring his visit had the kindness and wisdom to suggest that he was going to Honduras as much for Miguel as for anyone else. A nudge.

As if Andy needed it! He has always had a heart for Honduras, ever since he formed the “Meat Club” at North to raise money for the malnourished poor of Honduras that I talked about in my classes all the time. As soon as he arrived, he started freeing us from our preoccupations. I told him he was like another Dago, Chemo’s teenaged cousin who just died so suddenly in a terrible accident, come to refresh our hope and faith.

The first folks Andy wanted to nudge were the kids, especially the ones not in school, like Pablito, Chepito, Laito, Fila, Reynieri, and a bunch of others. Now a teacher himself in a pretty hard-core high school in the San Francisco area, Andy started classes with the kids on my porch. And they loved it! The only discipline problem here was to keep the pencils sharpened for all their little “assignments.” One day we all went down to the river for a class in the shade of big trees before a swim.

When I could no longer hide the broken zippers on my backpack, Andy got me a new one, industrial-strength. When he saw my severely cluttered desktop, he brought out a handy external hard drive with a whopping 300 GB, already stocked with all four seasons of my favorite series “Battlestar Galactica” and a bunch of other goodies. In Tegucigalpa, he became immediate friends with Angelica and helped pay her heart and diabetes meds, and he invited Elio and Mema to Mirawa, their favorite restaurant--for Chinese! He graciously attended Mass with us, a true friend-without-borders. He’d loan his fancy Canon camera to the kids and they never broke it; in fact, they took some of Andy’s best pics. He played soccer with the kids, both up at the campo as well in back of our house with Elvis and Dora’s kids. He loved the food! Dora cooked our lunch (including chop suey!) and we’d go to Alba’s for supper, chicken and rice every night, but Andy even asked for the recipe, which left Alba scratching her head. “I just...well, what DO I do?”

And he never got sick, another miracle, not even from the zillion skeeter bites, in a country currently battling the worst epidemic of dengue fever in years. He gave all his clothes away! He brought some shirts and things to give away, but he gave away even the clothes he’d been wearing--he went home with practically nothing. And we talked daily about the Bible and Jesus. In fact, another item on my wish-list that Andy brought me was a “red-letter” Bible in Spanish, with all the words of Jesus in red.

Andy scheduled three major events for his visit--or at least it seemed so. For example, Pablito’s birthday. He was turning 16, despite his birth certificate that says he’s still 15. So, when Carolina called, “What name do you want on the cake--Pablito or Pablo?” a nudge from Andy was all it took. “Pablo,” said Pablo, Pablito no more. “Felicidades PABLO.” Pablo appreciated the change. He really is growing up, even more than Chemo. Besides, he’d just been bitten on the ankle by Doctora Rebeca’s little black dog. I sent him there to get some Phenobarbital for a poor soul with epilepsy who visits me every month from Terrero Blanco, and Pablo apparently took a misstep off the porch, just enough sudden movement to alert the little mutt to some imagined danger and it snatched at him. Rebeca immediately assured him the dog had had its shots and showered Pablo with antibiotics, ibuprofen, creams, and bandages; but he was still limping for his party.

Then came the Day of Lempira, the legendary indigenous hero who led that day’s version of the Resistencia against the invasion of the Spanish (who of course murdered him treacherously at a “peace conference”). This year, something unique--all the kids dressed up like Indians, the boys in a “taparabo,” a loincloth made of “chato” bark (banana plants), and the girls in skirts fashioned from those enormous banana leafs. Juana, our neighbor, was making a taparabo for her son Carlitos, so I asked her to make one for Chemo. I was so nervous, would they be the only ones going to school naked that day? But morning came and the streets were filled with the “undocumented.” Andy and I and half the town attended the festivities, which included performances of songs or ballads or dances or skits by every grade, as well as lots of tasty foods for sale. OK, it was a sort of Disneyfication of a bloody history, but it was better than last year--during the “coup”--when the day was totally ignored.

I asked Chemo why he didn’t perform with the other third-graders. “Teacher didn’t want me.” I suspect he probably hid under his desk when she was picking volunteers. Juana Maria is Chemo’s fifth teacher this year, fourth overall. First was Vitelio, then Regina, who it turns out was doing her practice teaching for six weeks, then Vitelio again, until his retirement papers came through and he was gone, then Danilo, till his retirement papers came through, now Juana Maria, who looks more like a school teacher than any of them, so I’m trying not to be scared of her. But so far she’s been very nice, quickly giving Chemo permissions for all our little excursions.

One excursion was the third big event Andy participated in, the 18th anniversary of the organic Coffee Cooperative, now serving an international clientele. For the first time in three years, they held the event at the “Beneficio,” where the coffee beans are processed way up in the mountains, so I told Andy we must not miss it. The view is just breathtaking, the mountains dressed in cloud, Las Vegas like a little cartoon way down below. Music, dancing, speeches, and great food, celebrating, as I told Andy, one of the few success stories we have to offer.

Speaking of success, Rosa’s condition is improving. When it came time for her to leave, as Andy was arriving, I thought, we have to get her a check-up. The brigada had to postpone their July visit because every hospital bed in the country is occupied by a dengue patient, so we went the private clinic route, to my cardiologist, Dr. Bayardo Pagoada. His diagnosis, “abdominal aortic aneurysm,” was a little different from Dr. Christian Gilbert of the brigada, but it amounts to the same thing. The “abdominal” part refers to the way it pressures the ovary, thus the ravage caused by her pregnancy with little Tonito. But, as I say, improving. A new echocardiogram showed the wide-open mithral valve is closing, thank God, little by little. So he kept her on all her medicines, changing only one for something a little stronger. She’s on no less than three diuretics, this because an x-ray showed an abnormally small, probably non-functioning, right kidney, never diagnosed before. Andy took us all to dinner, and the next morning Rosa and Tonito got on the bus for the nine-hour trip to Tocoa, and Chemo, Andy, and I took the bus to Victoria/Las Vegas, a seven-hour excursion.

When Andy left two weeks later, he still wasn’t done. He got a ton of books and notebooks and educational games at the mall in Tegucigalpa for us to take back to Las Vegas, as his legacy. So the nudges can continue....

There’s a saying here that I actually heard for the first time not too long ago. When the Legion of Mary hiked to the village of Zarzal to visit a little old lady, she greeted us with, “Dios me trajo!” (God brought you to me). That’s how we feel about Andy here. He reminded us that, despite the sins and setbacks that drain our faith, God provides a friendly universe.

Love, Miguel

Bernard Lonergan, “Method in Theology”: “Faith and progress have a common root in man’s cognitional and moral self-transcendence. To promote either is to promote the other indirectly. Faith places human efforts in a friendly universe; it reveals an ultimate significance in human achievement; it strengthens new undertakings with confidence. Most of all, faith has the power of undoing decline.”

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2010

2010-06-30T23:43:00.001-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2010

Being still...

This would be the happy newsletter, I said, celebrating Honduras’ appearance in the World Cup for the first time in three decades. Win, lose, or draw--and they did all three, except the first one--it would be some fun. And I will report on that, lest this CASA overtest your patience.

But Dago, Chemo’s 19-year-old cousin, a really lovely kid, was electrocuted last week installing light in his mother Natalia’s house, a project I was paying for. He grabbed a high-tension wire and it killed him instantly. I was not an eye-witness, and the only way my own shock was spared was that I could not understand what folks rushing up to me were saying. I arrived just as they were pulling him into the back seat of the neighbor’s truck to get him to the doctor, and I didn’t get a good look at him till we got there a couple minutes later. Dr. Meme came running out, but as soon as they opened the car door and I saw Dago’s face, frozen in a look of terror, no hint of breath, and smelling burnt, my own heart all but stopped. Dr. Meme, to be kind, fiddled with his stethoscope, here and there, feeling for a pulse, pumping Dago’s chest a little, for about 10 minutes till he sensed we could accept the bad news. Dago’s brothers Marcos and Geovanny, who were cradling Dago, were shaking. I think we all were. I say “accept” but it was way too soon for that.

I just wouldn’t believe it. I kept staring at him, sure that the paralysis was only temporary; in another minute, he would start twitching or something, I was sure. But I was the one who was paralyzed. When we took him back home and folks started clearing out the one-room house for the wake, dressing Dago in nice clothes and laying him on clean sheets in his bed, I was just standing there like an idiot, unconscious, till finally a useful thought struck me: “Chairs!” I rounded up a few kids and we went to my house to bring over my 30 or so plastic chairs. Others hauled benches from an evangelical church even farther away. We needed them all. The longest night of our life. A wood shop is right next door, and we heard the saws buzzing and the hammering all night long, making Dago’s coffin. It had been raining every day for a week, but this night was clear, a big moon bathing all in silvery light.

Already “cooked,” Dago’s face bronzed even as we watched; he was tanning from the inside out. Watching him glow, I thought, Oh my God, is he even more beautiful now? A thought so scary I’m embarrassed to say it--unless perhaps the light was a sign he had already inherited eternal life. His face had assumed the burnished serenity of a Byzantine icon.

Or maybe such thoughts were just cover for my darker thoughts, namely, that I had killed him. I just wanted to upgrade the family, not tear a hole in it. Dago was helping Dennis the young electrician when he died. Dennis disappeared for days; when I finally caught up with him, he was practically a basket case. “I can’t go back there, Miguel.” He felt worse than I did. Meanwhile, Celeo, a more experienced electrician, offered to finish the job.

Helping. That’s who Dago was. When the family asked me to start the celebracion about 9:00 o’clock that night at the wake, I had my theme, even though I was trembling. Dago was a saint. I thought it even before he died. Nineteen years old, but not only did he not indulge any of the “vicios” (vices) common to his peers, such as drinking and smoking and cursing and playing cards and hanging out at the pool hall and jumping girls, but his humility was stunning. He just went to work every day, wherever it was, usually just mixing concrete for some one building a house. I barely knew how to behave around him. I’d visit him at work, taking along other kids to see Dago’s example, on the pretense we were bringing a big Coke to share with the workers on a hot day.

But he had a bad heart. I mean, heart disease. He’d play soccer with the little kids, like Chemo, and when I asked him once, Dago, why don’t you play soccer with the team your own age? he said, “I get tired too quick.” That and his sort of bulging eyes made me think he might have a heart condition like Chemo’s. I thought one day we’d take him to Tegucigalpa, though I didn’t know if we could impose on the brigada yet again. But if my diagnosis is right--and I can only imagine what an autopsy would show!--when he touched that wire, with a heart already weak, he never had a chance.

We buried Dago, and then sat and started praying for nine more days. It is a necessary cycle to smooth some of the jagged edges of the dagger plunged in our heart by Dago’s death.

But it’s even more than that.

The days leading up to Dago’s death had been really awful ones for our little household of Chemo, Rosa, Tonito, and me. Chemo and Rosa had been fighting, I was yelling at Chemo, I was even yelling at Rosa, and Tonito is a 22-pound Gulf Oil Spill. We were at the breaking point.

Then Dago was killed, and his death brought us all together, putting our differences and our indifferences behind us, as we grieve our noble loss. Who could fight or stand on principle when you saw Dago’s mother Natalia, whose ready wit and infectious smile I praised last month, shattered like a stack of dishes? That’s what love can do, to bind our wounds.

In fact, Rosa just told me that Dago had taken a little interest in her. Dago’s first girlfriend! You know, I had wondered why Dago was showing up every evening when we’d go over to Alba’s for supper. He wouldn’t eat or ask for anything. I’d chat and talk with him, like he was visiting ME! That’s how dumb I was. Now, let’s see, technically, Rosa and Dago were “family”--Dago was a younger brother of Alba, who is wife of Santos, who is the half-brother of Rosa (and of Chemo). Impediment? Whatever, Dago’s budding romance is now a legacy I hope we can live up to.

Before all the trouble came down, we had also managed to celebrate some birthdays, Rosa’s 24th, which coincided with little Helen’s 11th, and Mirna’s 12th, which coincided with her daddy Santos’ 36th. If Carolina’s cakes were diplomacy, the whole world would be at peace. In fact, I finally got a good picture of Tonito’s “shining,” a little “Sixth Sense” shock of pure blond hair emerging from a pale birthmark on his forehead. That should be a good sign, right?

In the run-up to the World Cup, Honduras went to Azerbaijan. There aren’t 3 people in Honduras who even know where Azerbaijan is! And I guess I’m one of them. I stared at a map for 15 minutes before I could locate it. The players were lost, too. Honduras did not score a goal in three games. I did better with finding South Africa--at least I wasn’t looking for it next to Argentina like the kids studying my wall map.

If you are watching any of the World Cup, you might know Honduras played three games and out. Which makes us just as good as Italy, the defending World Cup Champion, who also went three and out! And the U.S. played just one more game than we did before packing up. Honduras did not score a goal, true, but our goalie, Noel Valladares, embarrassed the competition by keeping us in every contest with many eye-popping stops. Spain, for example, was a particularly sore winner, asserting that their 2-0 victory should have been at least 8-0.

Here, the whole country came to a standstill for the broadcasts. I thought it was pretty exciting, but my friend Moncho, who coaches our Las Vegas team, was having none of it. He says the coach Reinaldo Rueda composed the team of name-players past their prime who couldn’t keep up with the younger guys they were playing against. “Rueda” is ‘wheel,’ so I made the joke, the team was playing in “sillas de Rueda,” or wheelchairs, a pun that later showed up in one of the newspapers! In fact, Moncho says that our local star Nahum, 19, could have “goaled” us at least into the second round.

Honduras did “earn” one point, from a scoreless tie with Switzerland. Any competition that tolerates a 0-0 final score seems a little unnatural, but not any stranger than those annoying vuvuzelas horns, which host South Africa defends as a “tradition,” you know, like ants at a picnic. So we’ll see how the whole thing ends. Guess it’s pretty much up to the referees, the last bastion of infallibility.

The one champion so far might be the World Cup music theme, K’Nann’s “Wavin’ Flags” that I guess you’ve seen in what’s called the “Coca-Cola mix.” (How could you miss it?) Here we see a Spanish version with K’Naan and David Bisbal. If you could score goals by just tapping your foot, we’d all be champions. I want everyone to be that happy.

June 28 was the first anniversary of the coup that ousted Mel Zelaya. The Resistencia took to the streets, ready with their list of the golpistas’ crimes, including death threats against some of our more activist Jesuit priests. Both sides are setting up Truth Commissions, as if truth could have two sides. It’s a tangled web of injustices, but it would be especially lovely--and here we could follow the standard set by Bishop Desmond Tutu in South Africa’s Truth Commission that shined the light on the evils of apartheid--if the golpistas confessed Micheletti’s crimes and the Resistencia repented Mel’s. Then we WOULD win a World Cup...for Peace.

It can start right here in Las Vegas. We are finishing the novena of prayer at Dago’s house. At least three different neighbors are baking breads for tomorrow’s finale. Celeo hooked up the electricity in a couple hours, without incident, just like that. We are almost back to “normal,” or what the Church calls Ordinary Time--whatever that means.

It should mean, in the words of Fr. Carl Dehne, “being still, standing with reverence, in silence, our hands over our open mouths, in awe at what the Triune God, the Creator of all, is doing for us.” (Trinity Sunday homily, College Church, St. Louis, May 30, 2010)

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2010

2010-05-31T22:11:00.002-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2010

Everything That Rises Must Converge

With a triple murder, our feast of the Holy Cross in Las Vegas was more like a stake through the heart. The slayings occurred only hours after Padre Jaime, in the inaugural Mass, had urged us, “Please, don’t go to the fiesta [the dance]; that is not your place.” I heard the shots, about 1:00 in the morning; they were so loud they sounded like they were right outside my window, five or six quick ones and a final coup de grace. I thought (hoped!) they were firecrackers, but when the music stopped playing shortly afterwards, I knew something bad had happened. But I never even thought of venturing out.

In the morning, Cristian came by. “Tres muertos, Miguel.” His mother Berta had been selling enchiladas outside the dance hall and saw the whole thing. Apparently the woman, from Victoria, was shot first, enraged jealousy the motive. She’s got a husband in the States, they say, but was stepping out with some other guy, one of the other victims, also from Victoria. The other man, Ricardo from El Zapote, apparently tried to intervene, and was shot for his trouble. The killer escaped on a motorcycle.

As I got Chemo ready for school, I assumed the police had cleared everything away. But classes were canceled, due to the “tragedia,” and I finally wandered over there about 8:00 a.m. and was aghast at what I saw. The police were there all right, and the three bodies, messed in blood and dirt, lying in the street in the full morning sun, already bloating. What can I say? They looked so...dead. I thought, This is what I see on TV every night, and here it is “Live” right in front of me. I wanted to change the channel. I kept staring, to see if they would move--that’s how disoriented I was. They were as still as stones. It somehow didn’t seem real, or too real. “These are people,” I may have even said aloud. The police had strung a yellow rope to keep the crowd at a decent distance, and white-shirted folks in rubber gloves were taking pages of notes, obviously Forensics. Our little Las Vegas, a crime scene, a massacre scene! I pulled my gaze from the dead to study the crowd. Classes may have been canceled, but school was in session. The classroom, a side street; the teachers, tres muertos; the lesson “objective,” our indifference to the welfare of our children.

I stayed till they finally stuffed the three bodies in huge bright-yellow plastic bags and loaded them in the back of a pickup. I had to hurry, because Natalia’s four-year old grandson Markitos had been kicked in the head by a horse the day before, and he was getting his stitches. it was a very neat wound, shaped exactly like the hoof that made it, a flap of skin opened up but not cracking the skull. We went to Rebeca, who we all call Doctora, though I think she does not have an M.D., because Dr. Meme was not available. Rebeca put in 13 stitches, and I could hardly believe how neatly the wound healed up.

Because of the shootings, all festival events were canceled, except the daily religious celebraciones, which could then assume their rightful place. That is, until three days later, when tame things like a sack race for the kids and a “sweetheart” dance for the senior citizens finished out the week. In the last procession, the kids carried decorated crosses up to the little church--finally renovation after a “hurricane” blew down all but its facade three years ago--and something extraordinary occurred. We stopped at the soccer field and borrowed the microphone from the very same folks hawking beer and bad music. Four of the delegados preached like Ezequiels about the true meaning of this festival of the Cross. It sent chills up my spine, and I dreaded the chance they might ask me to speak, too. I was staring my cowardice right in the face; but fortunately nothing from me was required.

Some of us, to lessen our shame, clung to the fact that no Las Vegans were directly “involved” in the killings, but I was reading Flannery O’Connor, who explodes such distinctions. For her, everyone is “one of my babies,” as the Grandmother calls the Misfit in “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” Of course, the Misfit shoots her three times in the chest as soon as she touches him, so our reluctance to embrace the alien is understandable, I suppose. I had just finished a book called “The Reason for God,” which was as dull as it sounds--as I guess it would be (you know, like you’d read a book called “The Reason for Roses”). But, as if in recognition of his limitations, the author Timothy Heller kept referencing Flannery O’Connor, so I took down my Library of America edition of her Complete Works, and started reading, squirming all the time, even resisting her disturbing images of the divine. But when I saw those three dead human beings, I became one of her characters, howling for Grace. The title of this month’s CASA is from her final collection of stories, inspired by Teilhard de Chardin, a Jesuit priest-cosmologist-mystic (how’s that for a convergence of contradictions!).

I was kinda proud of Chemo, that he was not one of the gawkers; he’s had enough experience of dead bodies, including his own father; but it all must have affected him anyway, because about midnight he crawled into my bed for the first time in a year.

One of my “babies” must be Alba, 35, the wife of Chemo’s older half-brother Santos. I was sort of looking forward--a guilty pleasure, you may say--to a solo trip to Tegucigalpa, unencumbered by Chemo and his whims and demands. But when Alba fell ill and was bedridden for three days, and not for the first time in recent months, I decided, it’s time, we gotta get her to a doctor, specifically a cardiologist, MY cardiologist, Dr. Bayardo Pagoada, a world-class specialist, though I haven’t seen him myself in about three years. So I made her an appointment, and Santos came along, too, it would have been impossible to separate them, and we left their four kids--plus Chemo--in the care of grandmother Natalia, a living saint, AND she’s got a great sense of humor, rare perhaps in saints, indispensable in grandmothers. She’s Markitos’ grandmother, too, so you see....

I assumed it was Alba’s heart, but that was because she was already taking heart medicine! Something some clinic gave her in Quebrada Amarilla, where they were picking coffee last season. But when Dr. Bayardo examined her, he took a look at the pills, and said, “They gave her this because it’s cheap, not because it’s what she needs.” One thing Dr. Bayardo is NOT, is cheap. At one point, after four days of blood tests, X-Rays, the EKG, the sonogram, the poop test, he asked me, “Will you be able to afford these medicines, if I prescribe them? ”I think so,” I said, a little tentatively. But I had already decided that, right? when I brought her to Tegus. When the Mileydi Pharmacy had to call three other branches to get it all, with couriers on motorcycles, I did begin to doubt my resources. So I put it all on VISA!

It’s not her heart. It’s her liver, some strange variation of Hepatitis. “I’m not sure what’s causing it,” Dr. Bayardo said. But it’s serious, complicated by something even more alarming, a pulmonary embolism. “Normally, I’d put such a patient in the hospital--right now,” he said, and he advised us to stay in town till a follow-up appointment in 10 days. The thought of missing her children brought Alba to tears, and when she started to improve almost immediately with all the meds--enough Cipro for an Anthrax attack; Noxipar, a discoagulant (injected “subcutaneously” twice a day); and something called “Potenciator,” 3 vials a day mixed in water, for “insufficient protein intake due to vegetarian diets”; there ya go! Chemically, it’s Arginine-Aspartate. I looked it up on the Internet; sounds like something Mark McGwire was taking--Dr. Bayardo relented, and indeed, which was a bigger risk to her health, a couple 6-hour bus trips or a mother’s yearning for her young?

When we went back a couple weeks later, Dr. Bayardo was impressed, but still concerned, so he ordered a Pap Smear. “Can we get that here?” I asked, but I already had a plan in mind. Elio Flores’ son-in-law Carlos is a gynecologist in the very same clinic. So we marched on downstairs and Carlos took us in as soon as he could, performed the test, gave Alba some vaginal cream for a “slight infection,” and promised to follow up when the results came back--and he didn’t charge us a thing.

Then it was time for Alba’s teeth. She’s been suffering from a couple raging molars for weeks. Now, get this, the dentist wanted three appointments just to clean her teeth! And I lost track of how many cavities she counted up. I must have been crazy to think we could just walk in there and get a molar or two pulled. They showed me a menu mounting up to 9,000 Lempiras, and that’s with a 40% discount. We were looking at days and days of appointments, debt up the wazoo, and our families Lost like the TV show.

Then, suddenly, deus ex machina, a parachute opened and flew us away. As we left the dentist after the first cleaning, Chemo’s sister Rosa called. “We’re coming to Las Vegas! We’re on the bus! We just left Tocoa!” Omigod, omigod, omigod. Oh My God! “But, Rosa, we’re in Tegus.” “Oh, heck.” In Honduras, we literally could not be farther apart.

Santos came to the rescue. He quickly calculated that there was no way Rosa--and baby Tonito--could get all the way to Las Vegas TODAY, His idea, get to Ayapa, the town near Yoro where Rosa and Chemo were born and spend the night with family, Then head for Las Vegas tomorrow, and meanwhile we’ll head on home from the Tegus side and all get there about the same time. I gasped. Like Dorothy in Oz, I could hardly believe it--we were going home. Alba was especially thrilled. No more doctors! At least for a while.

But the parachute may turn out to be a noose. Rosa ditched husband Tonio! She ain’t going back. Can’t really blame her. I have to say, I never much liked them together. He drinks and smokes and cusses--and hits her.

In one stroke, our little family doubled, and so did the expenses. Be careful what you wish for! I kept telling them every time we made the endless trip to Tocoa, “You guys should move closer.” Can’t get any closer than this! But Rosa is cooking, she’s cleaning, she’s washing. Suddenly I’m Henry Higgins, the confirmed old bachelor undone by my own Eliza Doolittle. I’m buy Pampers! Worse, I’m disposing of Pampers, if you know what I mean....

Will Tonio come after Rosa, like with a gun or something, and me, too? Probably not. Good Lord, he’s twice her age! He’s got two kids in the States as old as Rosa! So he’s not done yet. Besides, he can’t get here anyway. “Agatha,” the first hurricane of the season, sneaking in from the Pacific, is flooding half the country, and the bridge into town is under water. Oh yeah, it was supposed to be a desert till June, the forecasters said. But the rains started two weeks ago and won’t quit. The kids get their thrills playing mud soccer. But we have especially foul mud, since the whole town is basically a cow pasture. Chemo’s cousin Dionis just pulled a one-inch worm out of a pussy boil on the back of Chemo’s thigh. I was frantically attacking the little bulge with iodine and Neobol from the outside and feeding Chemo antibiotics to kill it from the inside. But Dionis finally coaxed it out, and now we’re back-filling the hole.

I had a moment of convergence I guess you could say, when, at the lowest point--almost without hope, wondering if there was a way out--suddenly a swift flock of little white birds, a type I’ve never seen before, like paper cups with wings, flew silently right past me at eye level, where I was sitting alone at the little church, the highest point in town. Immediately, I said, “That’s my sign. We’re all right.”

The reason for God? More like, the reaching for God, with God doing most of the reaching.

Pierre Teilhard De Chardin, "The Omega Point": "Remain true to yourself, but move ever upward toward greater consciousness and greater love! At the summit you will find yourselves united with all those who, from every direction, have made the same ascent. For everything that rises must converge."

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2010

2010-05-01T02:27:00.002-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2010

[Note: If you want to see all the photos from this month's newsletter, write me at michaeldulick@yahoo.com]

Eyjafjallajokull-lite

I wondered what I’d’ve missed in Las Vegas if I’d gone to the States.

First of all, more wounds.

I stopped by the tiny kids Jefferson and Helen’s with their juices and chips, a hot morning. Ines, their grandmother, was a-tither; she’d just heard that old Pedro, her husband, had cut his hand with his machete, way up in the hills getting firewood. I don’t have any idea how she knew, but her son had gone to find him. Just then, here they come, Pedro’s hand--like Dulis’ hand in last month’s CASA--wrapped in some green leaves and a bloody rag. I couldn’t stand to look at Dulis’ wound, but I knew I had to see this; Pedro’s a wraith, but he’s a tough old bird. I knew if I didn’t look at it, he’d just shrug it off--which was exactly his attitude--till, when the last leaf came off and I gasped--it looked like he’d lunched with Hannibal Lector--he agreed he probably should go to the clinic. And this treatment would be “free,” because the doc would be on public time. So go, Pedro! And I sent him off with his teenage granddaughter Yolanda.

Half-hour later, Yolanda’s at my door. “They gave him a prescription.” Well, sure, I expected that, you know, some antibiotic or....what the heck? It was for No. 2 thread! “Are you kidding me?? They don’t have sutures at the clinic?” I repeated this about five times, in English, each time louder. “What kind of a country is this? The Big Creep Mel Zelaya--the ousted president--is suing Honduras for his back pay, and they don’t have sutures in the clinic!” The whole neighborhood heard me, two or three neighborhoods, in fact, as I marched over to Rebeca’s, where she has a small pharmacy, and got the damn thread; 100 Lempiras for a tiny package. “What do POOR people do?” A rhetorical question if there ever was one. EVERYBODY’ s poor. And Pedro? He was back at the house. “Yolanda!” I shout. She jumped three feet. She walked him back to the clinic. I guess he shoulda stuck with the leaves.

So I started another round of changing bandages every day. Pretty soon Pedro’s feeling so good he wants to get back to work, chopping that firewood. I tell him he has to rest, at least till he gets the stitches out! I asked him how old he was. “Ninety-eight.” Ines gently corrected him, “Seventy-eight.” I was going with a hundred and eight. But he’s a sweetie, keeps thanking me.

A couple days later, the next shoe dropped, filled with blood. I hear someone yelling in the street, “The Guato fainted! The Guato fainted!” This could not make any sense. The Guato, 23, the toughest soccer player in Las Vegas, does not faint. Unless he’s whipped his machete into his own foot. He was out in the field, cleaning it up for planting, and the machete slipped out of his hand. He wrapped his ankle himself in leaves and, yes, a bloody rag, and rode his bike back to the house, and fainted as he dismounted. But he’s pure steel. No sooner did we help him inside than he was fully alert while grandma Mina unwrapped the wound, the blood oozing into his sneaker. Here we go again! But, hey, this time I’m ready. While Guato rides himself over to the clinic on his bike, I get the sutures from Rebeca on the way! And I don’t even wonder what kind of a country this is.

“He’s going to need a couple shots,” says Dr. Meme, and looks at me. What? Another thing the clinic doesn’t have is syringes! I resist the temptation to grab him by the throat, and just send a kid off to the nearest store to get the stickers. Meanwhile, I ask him about t the leaves--do they really help? Because he really is a very nice man, and a good doctor; it’s not his fault the health care system in Honduras is one big death panel. “Good Lord, no! They contaminate the wound!” He went on to say some folks stuff a wound with coffee grounds, and even dirt. We got Guato back home, and I told him to rest and keep his leg elevated. A couple hours later he was tooling around town on his bike. I didn’t say a thing. I just got him a supply of gauzes and tape and iodine to change his bandages himself. As he said, “I’ve had worse.”

OK, the next one was a perfect stranger. “Dr. Meme said you’d buy me the sutures.” I didn’t know him, but I believed him. He was limping badly and he went to lift up his pants leg, and I saw the bloody rag--”That’s enough.” I gave him a note for Rebeca.

Next was Adonai from La Laguna. Him I know. But you probably wouldn’t recognize his hand, what he’d done to it with his machete. Off to the clinic, but he just missed the doctor, who told him to come his private office. I guess Meme knew this was no boating accident. “Deep, very deep,” he told me later, when I paid the 700 Lempiras (as opposed to 5 Lempiras at the clinic).

Not all wounds are bloody but still go deep. We were all so happy for Horacio, our school principal, when he got promoted to superintendent of the whole municipality of Victoria, which includes about 100 schools (most of them pretty small, from 50 students). But when he tried to move Wilfredo, everyone’s favorite teacher in Las Vegas, and everyone’s best friend, to Tegucigalpita, we were stunned. The move would have simply disappeared Wilfredo; Tegucigalpita (not to be confused with Tegucigalpa) is so far away in the mountains it’s practically in Morazan. Wil could never “commute”; he would have to spend the whole week there, and then he’s still taking graduate classes himself in Progreso every weekend. His wife Brenda would be a widow, their children orphans. Brenda told me, in tears, “Miguel, we are so hurt, Horacio and Wilfredo have been like brothers their whole life.”

Well, politics makes strange bedfellows, and sometimes unmakes them. Since the Nationals won the elections all over the country, Liberals like Wil are getting pushed out. Legally, you understand. The teacher Horacio wants to put in Wil’s place already has her “titulo” (degree), so has more “right” to the job.

A simple parent-teacher meeting turned into a rally for Wil. The tone was set when Brenda was elected president of the parents club. Flor, the current principal, led the charge herself. She had a letter of protest signed by every teacher in the school. And Wil had composed one too. Kako, the most experienced activist among us, offered to chain himself to the school gate if persuasion did not work. Imagine! The first strike of the year won’t be the teachers, it’ll be the parents!

The next day, two carloads of us (the “cars” were pick-ups, you know) went into Victoria to “dialog” with Horacio. I had no idea what to expect, but it really was dialog, and successful, too. Horacio received us graciously and listened to everyone. Kako himself set the tone this time. “Brother Horacio, you know we were all thrilled with your promotion, it was a promotion for Las Vegas itself, we all respect you and appreciate all you did for our school, you restored discipline and excellence, and that was not easy, we all love you and know you as our neighbor, so we appeal to these relations--and to the law, which requires that Wil’s contract be honored to teach in Las Vegas this year.” And everyone else said variations of the same. Things did get a little tense here and there, especially when Horacio referred to gossip he would hear at the soccer field that demeaned him, and poor Flor broke down in tears at Horacio’s “personal betrayal.” But when Horacio asked three times if any one else had something to say, I realized he wanted me to speak, and he finally said, “Miguel, what do you say?” He probably expected a conciliatory message, and that’s exactly what I offered, despite my initial sense of outrage. “Profe, I’ve known you and Wil since you were children and love you both so it pains me to see any rift between you, and we all depend on your position and your honor for a resolution.” Innocuous enough, but I meant it as a thank-you to all the folks present.

Horacio, despite what we all assumed was a lot of pressure from the new mayor to sweep the Liberals out, compromised. He said the new teacher would stay in Victoria, where she is already working, and Wil will stay in Las Vegas, for two years, by which time he should finish his own “titulo” and thus have full legal right to the job. The “dialog” took an hour, the writing of the “document” took two hours. But when it was done and signed, we all hugged Wil and Horacio, the latter a little gingerly since such PDA’s are “unprofessional.”

So I would have missed my day in the Resistencia if I’d gone to St. Louis.

I did go to Tegucigalpa, but not to get on a plane. We sat still the whole month of March, as Chemo got well settled into school. Once April started, I looked for a good chance to get away, figuring we’d go on a weekend, to minimize missed days at school. So we went Saturday, April 10, taking Chemo’s cousin Dionis along, for some big-city thrills. I asked Chemo’s teacher Regina for “permission” to miss Monday and Tuesday, and she gave him a little homework to tide him over.

We had fun, but when I called Elio and Mema to invite them to lunch, they tell me their daughter Chindy got rammed in a car accident in the morning, and her husband Alejandro got car-jacked in the afternoon. Two guys in masks burst into Alejandro’s car, guns drawn, and made him drive to a remote spot, where they put the guns to his head--and left him without pulling the trigger. What a laugh, huh? The car was found later, stripped of his little sons’ backpacks and toys, and other things. “It’s in the shop,” Elio said. And how soon will Alejandro recover? You know, Honduras is second only to Iraq for violence, per capita, or should I say, de-capita.

And I would have missed Cristian’s baby, if I’d gone to St. Louis! Cristian, you may recall, was shot in the gut back in December, and he’s got a foot-long scar from the “surgery” that saved his life. His girlfriend Maria was already pregnant then, and she delivered a healthy little 8-pound girl, Jenny Catalina, on April 23, not without falling near-victim to the caprices of Honduran health care. When the due date approached, they went to Victoria, and someone told them the “materno” (the free maternity clinic) was closed. “It’s a warehouse now.” So they came home and called Erlinda, the best midwife in Las Vegas. She sort of exploded. “The materno is NOT closed, it’s just moved!” So they went back to Victoria the next day, where they found the materno, but, they were told, “It’s twins, you gotta go to Yoro for this, to the hospital.” No ultrasound, you understand, just guesswork. So the next day they go to Yoro, where ONE baby appeared, and no more. They’re back home, now, and I had to laugh. Cristian has appeared in these reports so often, he’s one of the cantina kids--raised in a tavern, littered with vomiting, cursing drunks--and he says to me something I never imagined I’d hear from him. “Miguel, I spent most of the money you gave me on PAMPERS.” He’s 20 and now he’s a father changing diapers. And something else I’m not used to from him. “I prayed, Miguel, I prayed so hard, that everything would be all right.”

I told Cristian , that’s why your life was spared when you got shot, so your baby would not be born an orphan. God saved you to be a father to your child. God may have saved me for the same reason, because I have been giving him a good amount of money. I couldn’t live with myself if little Jenny Catalina was further endangered just for lack of a few bucks....

I cannot show you a picture, ‘cause my stupid camera won’t work! But I’ve got a gorgeous shot I took before it broke of little Helen, Maricela and Blas’s daughter with MS.

Speaking of Maricela, she named her baby Mariana after my sister Mary Anne, as I reported before. So when the first anniversary of Mary Anne’s death came round April 17, I went over to the house, just to sort of bask in baby Mariana’s glow. And glow she did; it’s as if she knew. I’ve never seen her more alert, just looking intently at me, her eyes wide and bright, her tiny hand raised like a gesture of blessing. It gave me the idea to do our own version of a novenario, 9 days of prayer for a departed loved one, including any anniversary of their passing. But I wasn’t sure how to proceed. “We’ll do it here, Miguel,” said Alba confidently, when Chemo and I went over for supper. Of course, they never knew Mary Anne, but they wanted to do this for her. So for 9 evenings, we said the Rosary before dinner, just so, each night another neighbor or two joining the group.

And when Chemo’s “nephew” Joel, Alba’s boy, had his 15th birthday, I don’t know, it just was the best party. A big cake, snacks, Cokes, the usual, but somehow just nicer. I think it was because the kids didn’t just eat and run. Folks hung around a while, listening to music and just having some fun. It’s the first time I can’t show you one of my famous “cake” photos, though, since my camera is on the fritz again. And I wanted to show you a BEFORE and AFTER of Joel and Chemo, BEFORE Chemo’s operation, when Joel would carry his tiny “uncle” on his back, and AFTER, now that they are the same age, and Chemo is a head taller...

One afternoon, 25 little kids came from Uracal, a mountain village about an hour’s hike away. They needed a photo, their teacher said, to claim some kind of “beca” (scholarship) from government funds. Oh man! “My camera...it doesn’t work.” But I had to try. I got them cool drinks from the fridge while I fidgeted with my camera, turning it off and on, tapping it on the cement sidewalk, thumping it, rubbing it, cursing it, blessing it--finally, just when I think I’ll have to send them away empty-handed, a flicker! “Line up, kids!” I got one shot, as the sun slipped behind the hills. I “view” it, hmm, a couple faces hidden by classmates. “One more!” Nope, that’s all she wrote, as the camera shuts off. So, you’ll never know any more about them than I do, but you gotta see this shot...

When they told us there’d be no classes for a week, Chemo and I went to Progreso. As we come into the city 5 hours later, Porfirio, the bus driver, announces “El Progreso!” and a bunch of folks get off, but I don’t rush, I get my gear together, I want to wait till the boulevard, the last stop. I look around, and no Chemo. Instant panic, like a nightmare closing around me. “He got off at the last stop.” What are you talking about?? Porfirio knows me, he knows Chemo, he knows he’s my son, I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can’t talk, except, “I’m getting off, I’m getting off!” I bound into the street and immediately start waving my arms like a semaphore, hoping Chemo will see me, wherever he is. I know it’s about 3 long blocks, and, indeed, I see this little form in the distance running, running, running desperately, and I know it’s Chemo. I assume he sees me, but he’s running so hard, so scared, it seems, I’m not sure, then he starts to dart across the street and I know, “My God! His eyes! His poor eyes! He CAN’T see me!” I swear I thought of Edgar in “King Lear,” stricken at the sight of his blinded, “parti-eyed” father Gloucester. I almost died of grief myself, it was all like slow-motion or something, and I finally had to tell myself, “Call him, you idiot!” I finally find my voice. “CHEMO! CHEMO! I’M HERE!” At last he knows. He slows down and I speed up. I grab him and hug him, he says nothing, like it’s all OK, but he’s shaking--or maybe it was me. “Were you scared, Chemo?” Shakes his head. “Are you all right?” Nods yes. “Couldn’t you see me?” A shrug. But I kept reassuring him (myself?) that I would never lose him again, and I told him (begged him?) never get off the bus without me right behind you. And inwardly I kept cursing Porfirio (myself?)--what carelessness, to let Chemo off by himself! And in El Progreso!

Then a visit to Morazan, trying to coincide with Fermincito’s 21st birthday. You may recall I previously reported that he had returned from about 8 months of misery on the U.S./Mexico border, hoping for a break--and all he got was a broken arm when a tractor he was trying to drive rolled over on him. Now he’s got another wound, the same kind that has punctuated this letter. He was helping his dad Fermin with the grates for the windows on their house; he was operating a grinder or a cutter or a polisher--something with a wheel--and it broke apart, the wheel shattering as it ripped off the top of his left hand, filling the wound with tiny shards. I saw the purple scar snaking across his hand like a glove, but I was not spared the sight of the butchery itself--Fermincito himself had videoed it on his cell phone! As the doctor (doctora, actually, as she picked out the pieces with a tweezers) worked for three hours, he just had recorded about 3 minutes, but that was more than enough. It looked more like a hand TRANSPLANT. Fermin, the dad, who saw it all happen, said, “Miguel, I thought he would lose his hand.” I thought I’d lose my lunch.

We get back to Las Vegas to hear the news that Will is back on the rack. Horacio is losing his position as superintendent--seems he wasn’t slurpy enough to suit the mayor, who’s trying to clear the district of liberals--so the deal is off. Wil, always the optimist, just says, If they fire me, I’ll do something else. But he was born to be a .teacher. It’s as if the mayor of Manchester told Gary Mazzola who to hire--and fire--at Parkway South. OK, bad example....

Hey, I just got a camera! In Morazan, Fermin loaned me his camera while he tries to repair mine. So take a look, including Cristian and family, and the BEFORE and AFTER of Chemo and Joel.

What did I miss in St. Louis this month, besides the Cardinals 20-inning game? Well, that you must tell me...and I wish I could be in two places at once. At least hold me in your heart, as I do you.

Meanwhile, the annual festival celebrating our church, named “Holy Cross,” starts today.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2010

2010-04-01T07:45:00.001-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2010

See you...in September

If this were any other April, I’d be in St. Louis right about now, accepting your gracious invitations to a chaw and a talk or a hearty meal. But, as I mentioned last month, I’ll wait till September for another visit this year.... In fact, this is the first time since I moved down here that I will spend the whole month of April in Honduras. What’s so significant about that? Well, April is the hottest month, the most globally warm, you might say. And they’re not promising any relief this year till June, when the rainy season should start, a month later than normal. I know I’ll get no sympathy from you, just enjoy your SPRING!

Chemo has a new teacher, a lovely young woman named Regina, whose husband Lindolfo, is the first-grade teacher for Chemo’s nieces Mirna and Reina. Chemo’s third-grade class had 42 kids, so they split it in half; I had to smile, I sorta think Profe Vitelio saw his chance, and shipped out Chemo to the new teacher. Well, that’s fine, I feel more confident now about his prospects for passing. The first grading period is upon us, she has to give him a break, right?

Lindolfo--I’m sure he has no idea why I smile so every time I see him. He’s the only Lindolfo I ever heard of outside of an opera aria. But if he teaches Mirna and Reina how to read, hey, I’ll be singing his praises, too!

Just walking to school each day with Mirna and Reina, as well as Chila their sister in second grade, is sort of a miracle, since they’ve never attended before. Their mom and dad, Alba and Santos, finally came home to Las Vegas after 4 months picking coffee in Quebrada Amarilla. In fact, they arrived on Father’s Day, here celebrated on March 19, feast of St. Joseph (ironically, a “father” with no children, except that one rather famous foster-child, Jesus Christ). Santitos, or Joel, their little son who stayed with them picking coffee (and so will miss school--again!) comes sauntering down the street to my house about 6 in the morning, and I jumped for joy. I take him into Chemo’s bedroom. “Chemo! Look who’s here! Who is it? Who is it?” Chemo raises his groggy head from the covers, takes a look, takes another look, “It’s Joel,” and falls back on the pillow. But pretty soon he was bouncing out of bed and getting dressed. We all went over to the house and there they all were, including the girls, who had been staying with their grandmother Natalia while Santos and Alba were away. It was a happy reunion all around, and Alba was right back at it, handing out coffee with cream and tasty rolls to everyone.

I urged Santos to attend the Father’s Day celebration at the school, but he was, of course, bushed--months picking coffee and a red-eye return in the back of a truck from Quebrada Amarilla that traveled all night. Meanwhile, I was inviting any kids who came by my house to make a card for their father, using cards that Mary Morini made from Chepito’s drawings. (She’s still got sets available, if you’re looking for cards YOU can use for Father’s Day...!) Chemo made one, discarded it, and worked on another. It astonished me: “Muchas gracias por atenderme y salvarme la vida.” (Thank you for taking care of me and for saving my life.) It suddenly confirmed the decision to spend April with him.

And Chepito is drawing again! I guess I caught him in a good mood, or maybe it goes in cycles, like sunspots. He wants to draw every day. “Do you still have ideas?” “Uh-huh.” And he does, elaborate crosses (which I keep insisting, “These aren’t gang signs, are they?”), churches, palaces, and structures that look like Alice in Wonderland. Fine, precise details, just lines, you might say, but hours of painstaking art. And the colors! You know, it’s funny that conventional wisdom calls black and white photography, for example, “realistic.” If Chepito were a philosopher, he might say, “No, color is real.” And the statement would be greeted with interest and respect, especially if the interviewer had seen his drawings.

Red blood is certainly real. But when Dulis came to me with his hand bandaged in a rag and some leaves, I did not even want to look at the wound, wounds, actually, a slice to the bone along the thumb and a gash in his wrist, from falling onto his machete somehow. I sent him off with a note to Dr. Meme (that I would pay the expenses). I caught up with him a little later, while Meme was stitching away, I think with no anesthetic, judging by Dulis’ grinding teeth, and Meme’s hands painted red like a MASH surgeon. I just glanced in every now and then, lest I faint dead away. The doctor ended the session with three shots, and told Dulis to come to the clinic for a Tetanus shot the next day. Meme was just saving me a little money. The bill was already a thousand Lempiras since this was “private” time, and the shot at the clinic would be free. I paid, but it opened a wound in my wallet. I had been counting my money every night, trying to calculate if it would last till I got my pension in April. I was expecting an emergency, you know, you have to allow for that any time. Hey, where’s OUR Obamacare?

I still had the gauzes and tape and Neobol cream and iodine out from changing Dulis’ dressings a day later when Joel limps in, with strips of rag around both knees and hands. He’d fallen, “What? Off a mountain?” I asked. He had these big red patches where skin used to be, so I set to work. By the time I had him bandaged up, he had enough white trim and red spots he looked like a cut-rate Santa Claus.

“Use the root! Use the root!” This was the cry as they started vaccinating all the dogs in town against rabies, a public service provided by the mayor. The first one was a tiny thing you could hold in one hand, a puppy. But when the next one whipped around like a kite--they shoot them up in a hind leg, because it’s the farthest away from their teeth, I assume!--a veteran of the operation pointed to a tree root that looped out of the ground about three inches. Now, don’t get upset, you dog-lovers, but they feed the leash through the root (and vaccination day is the only time dogs around here ever see a leash) and pull tight, in effect nailing the dog’s head down to the ground, while someone else wrests the dog’s hind leg free enough to inject it. Some dogs still try to thrash, but they are no match for...the root. Immediately after the shot, they are released and are meek as kittens, a dazed look on their mugs, like, “What the heck was that?” When my neighbor Lalito brought his two huge wolves that bark all night like banshees, I was chanting, “Overdose, overdose!” under my breath. But to no avail.

You can’t overdose on birthdays. Elsa, Chemo’s cousin, had her first birthday party ever, at age 11. It was also partly to thank her mother Natalia for taking such good care of Chemo and me while Santos and Alba were away. I realized this committed me to more parties--for her brother Dionis, as well as Chemo’s nieces and so on. Oh, please! What a “problem”! It’s a kid’s birthday. Childhood is not a “pre-existing condition”! You gotta celebrate. As Joan Sebastian, a Mexican composer, sings of his son, who died young, “Eres el trigo de mi pan,” you are the wheat of my bread.

And all of you are my daily sustenance.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2010

2010-02-28T20:23:00.001-06:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2010

The Obedience of Faith

I landed in Miami on Super Bowl weekend. But I kept going, on to St. Louis. I went in obedience to Pilar Harrison, who long before, in fact, ever since her husband Dean’s funeral in 1999, had called me to attend her passing as well. “You will speak for my funeral, too, Miguel.”

Pilar died January 27, but she had arranged her cremation, so the Mass and memorial service was unhurried, scheduled for February 13. This gave us time to plan a loving tribute to her life; anyone who knew her wanted to participate, from folks who knew her since the late 1960s when she first came to America from Barcelona, Spain, to marry Dean, all the way to little Katie Melching, 9 years old, who wanted to sing with her daddy Brian at the service for the “angel” who often brought supper for her handicapped mommy Angela.

Pilar was always doing for others, but she’d laugh when she’d answer the phone with her Catalan accent and some nosey caller would ask for “the lady of the house.” Pilar did not mind being taken for the maid, but it’s a mistake she never made herself, that is, prejudging others by appearances. She was always on the move, filled with the same Spirit that formed the cloistered Passionist nuns, contemplating Christ night and day. Pilar took their grocery order every week, way out to the convent at the west end of Manchester Road. The big congregation at her funeral was as varied as a random round-up at the U.N., yet we were all linked by our love for one particular person.

I excerpt my “eulogy” below, but I have to add one annotation. After I spoke, I kept hoping for a sign from Pilar that she forgave the embarrassing confession I made in the speech. On Ash Wednesday, Teresa Jorgen and I went looking for a fish fry. According to the newspaper, there was a fish fry at Incarnate Word Church, where we’d just had Pilar’s funeral a few days before. That would be a nice coincidence, we thought. We got there...and nothing. Some kids playing in the gym, another little after-school group in the cafeteria. What the heck? So Teresa said, Let’s go to Gulf Shores, a favorite spot of Pilar’s just up Olive Street Road.

As soon as we walk in, we hear a blues guitar and a big greeting, “Teresa! Miguel!” It was Brian Melching, Katie’s dad, who plays and records under the name Pennsylvania Slim, and he’d just started his set. OK, this was no coincidence! A gal who grew up under Francisco Franco’s dictatorship in Spain, diggin’ the blues--this was the sign I was waiting for. Nothin’ better than the blues to make you feel good about your hard times. As Teresa exclaimed, “Pilar loved Pennsylvania Slim!” While we ate our fish and chips, Brian dedicated every other song either to Pilar or Teresa or me, and none of the other customers seemed to mind. We got his latest CD and played it all the way home.

Pilar, I guess, planned everything but the weather. Frozen! I cleaned snow off the car--Pilar’s car! which I was “borrowing”--at least four times. What is the matter with you people?? How do you live like this?? I took pictures like some tourist from another planet, to show back in Honduras, where my daily phone calls reported hot, sunny days.

On the other hand, I was warmed up by good times with good friends, even when we were cleaning out Pilar’s condo, the stories we told, the memories we shared. But the friends I was most eager to see were the ones I hadn’t met yet--the babies! Little Jaslyn, born last October, the daughter of my nephew Jason and wife Sonja. Of course, if you wanna ooh and ahh this charmer, you gotta get a line ticket, there’s such a crowd! (Actually, speaking of tickets, Jason’s receiver coach at Illinois, Greg McMahon, is the special teams coach for the New Orleans Saints and invited Jason down to Miami for the Super Bowl. He couldn’t quite get Jason into the game, but he got him into THE PARTY!!)

Then I got to meet Ellie Florence, born in December, the daughter of Parkway North grad and St. Louis Symphony graphic designer Carol Stanton and her five-star chef husband Kirk Warner. (As Carol said, “I had NO trouble with my food cravings” during her pregnancy.) Ellie’s a cutie, already tempting a nickname like “Stringbean.” She cries a little, but maybe because she’s already a diva!

Way too early for a Cardinals game (though spring training is starting), I yielded to the meatloaf grandmaster Rams’ wisdom, who frowned at the prospect of my doing such a quick turn-around to come right back in April, and then disappear again till God knows when. “Why don’t you spread it around?” So she suggested I return later in September, in time for my October birthday--and maybe a World Series game.

And, indeed, I really must attend to business in Honduras. I spent 200 dollars on phone calls back “home” keeping track of Chemo. School finally started, a week late, and Chemo is cottoning up to his new teacher, Profe Vitelio. And he’s shepherding his 3 little nieces to class every day, for the first time really in their lives. So that’s working.

But the extracurricular activities were more disturbing. Every phone call, Chemo had another request, new shoes, new toys, new clothes, but the most persistent wish was for a new portable DVD player. “But you already have one,” I would say. (That was the big present I got him after his open-heart operation.) “No, it’s...scratched.” Pretty soon, I hear he’s sold it! For 300 Lempiras (about 15 bucks, when it cost ten times that). “No, I didn’t! Who told you?” That’s a story in itself. I called Cristian, the teen who got shot , pretty often, and most often Pablito and Chepito would be over at his house, so one day they’re hemming and hawing and beating around the bush till Cristian finally puts his sweet as pie little sister Mariela on the line, who tells me, with obvious prompts from the boys, “Chemo sold his--what’s it called?--‘portatil.’ Oh, and it’ my birthday.” Their deniability thus preserved, I could honestly tell Chemo, “they” (Chepito, Pablito, or Cristian) did not tell me.

But that’s not the point, Chemo! I talked to Dora, I talked to Natalia, Chemo’s grandma, who never leaves the house, but she was was so upset she crossed town to confront Chemo along with Dora. And Dora got it back, from Walter, a nice kid (I thought!), though the money question remained to be clarified. Chemo finally admitted his enterprising--though his monosyllables were a lot harder to decipher than Tiger Woods’ apology.

Other, even more bizarre stories kept circulating, but I had to dismiss these as fantasies. I couldn’t have Dora running down every rumor.

But even before I got back to Las Vegas, I had to bail out three Las Vegan teens in Tegucigalpa--Gerardo, Marvin, Olancho. Well, not really bail them out with cash; I sweet-talked them out of custody. The day I got back from the States, I invited them to Pizza Hut in the mall to celebrate Gerado’s 19th birthday. Gerardo is the brother of Cristian, the kid who got shot; also invited was Marvin, whose life Cristian saved by taking the bullet; and their mutual cousin Olancho. You know how malls are with teenagers now. Talk about profiling! I was already in the restaurant waiting for them with an order of Hut Wings when the manager, Roger, who’s been a pal for years since he was an eager-beaver waiter, comes running up to me. “They’ve been arrested!” (Even he knows these kids, from previous invites.) In a panic, we packed up the Hut Wings and I hurried off, with a floor-walker, to the security office on the roof. “They took them to the police station already,” I was informed. What, not Guantanamo?

I grabbed a cab to the station, which is right next to the hospital where Chemo got his heart operation, so I knew the area well. I expressed equal parts of dismay, shock, subservience, solicitude, understanding, and sternness, whatever worked. Eventually, I was ushered into the sergeant’s office. I explained that I come to the capital city once a month and invite friends from Las Vegas now living and working--I emphasized WORKING, that is, that they were responsible, not slackers--in Tegus. Then he called the boys in and sat them down and told me, eyeing them all the time, “Sir, you know, as a former teacher [we’d already discussed that] that you can recognize a bad student the first time you see them; I’ve got twenty years of experience as a police officer and I can tell you right now, these guys are not as pure as you think they are.” Nerves, I guess, but I came very close to what would have been a very inappropriate laugh when he said “pure” since “puro” is also the Spanish word for cigar. “They’re not the cigars you think they are.” In fact, they did look pretty scuzzy--well, they’d come straight from work! But I agreed with the voice of authority, meanwhile shushing Marvin, who was muttering under his breath about how unfair this all was. What I did not say was that, as a teacher, I had in fact dedicated my whole life to fighting prejudice, precisely, NOT to judge anyone by their appearance. But let him have his way--we got out of there and crossed the street to another, smaller mall, with its own Pizza Hut, and we opened up our Hut Wings (the waiter kindly provided a plate), ordered up a pizza and finished our evening in peace.

Back in Las Vegas now, I’m in my shirt sleeves, where the weather is alternating between baking heat (love it!) and breezy cool (you would call it summer). Chemo and his nieces have yet to all have class the same day, with this teacher out, then that teacher out, but I love our little ritual: Chemo gets up early and gets ready and we go over to his grandma Natalia’s, where the girls are staying till their mom and day, Alba and Santos, come back, probably not till April, from picking coffee, and we go off to school together, also his cousin Dionis, Natalia’s youngest, in fifth grade. The girls are Chila, 13, in second grade, Mirna, 11, and Reina, 9, both in second grade with Profe Flor. A hopeful start, though I saw “Why did you not do your HOMEWORK??” scrawled on Mirna’s notebook already. You gotta understand, Madam Teacher, these girls have practically no experience being in school. Give ‘em a break, OK? Of course, personal attention is at a premium, when you’ve got 40 kids in a classroom....

The transitions are so abrupt. At 6:00 in the morning, I’m handing off my big warm Cardinals jacket to Teresa Jorgen at Lambert Airport in St. Louis, and by noon I’m landing in Honduras, hot and dry and sunny. I tell you, going either way is not easy. It’s harder every time I leave Chemo behind, and it’s sheer torture to leave such dear friends and family in St. Louis.

One transition was even more final. The whole time I was in St. Louis, I wanted to visit Tom Thompson--”Don Tomas” to his thousands of students at Parkway East Junior High (as it was called) and Parkway North High. But it was very hard to catch him on a “good” day, because he was so sick. Still at home, in the loving hospice care of Patricia, easing Tom’s transition to his last despedida, or farewell, I finally got the chance the Thursday before I left town. He was alert, and profoundly thoughtful; all he wanted to talk about was Pilar, how good and wise and loving she was; indeed, how good she had made all the rest of us. I didn’t stay long. “I won’t see you again, Miguel,” he said, as we kissed good-bye. “I love you.” We both said that. Don Tomas died three days later, Sunday morning, February 21, just a week before his birthday.

So strange, isn’t it? Pilar had sent for me, after her death, but, in some mystery, she knew it was an invitation to see Don Tomas, too, before his passing. What St. Paul calls “the obedience of faith” is simply love. When we respond, even God falls into our lap.

Love, Miguel

EULOGY for PILAR VILARÓ HARRISON

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Incarnate Word Catholic Church

As much as Pilar loved Dean, she did not keep him to herself. I counted myself among their friends, but I did not realize how good was their love, how rich, how full, how all-embracing, until after Dean died. Some time later, Pilar gave me...Dean’s wedding ring.

But I lost it! You see, for several years, I wore the ring for any special occasion--Pilar’s birthday, Dean’s birthday, the anniversary of Dean’s death, their wedding anniversary, Easter, Christmas, New Year’s Day, Thanksgiving--anytime I knew that I would see Pilar. Suddenly, after a certain flurry of celebrations--putting the ring on, taking it off, putting it on--somehow, I misplaced it. Lost it!

I was miserable! I searched everywhere. I’m still convinced it’s somewhere in my old apartment on Delmar. I tore up at least a couple floor boards looking for it.

I bought a ring to replace Dean’s ring--and I never really had to tell Pilar, because shortly afterwards, I moved to Honduras. Yes! I ran away! But now, Pilar knows what a numbskull I am! I’m so sorry, Pilar! But maybe she forgives me.

This ring, even it it’s not “really” Dean’s ring, does I hope do Pilar and Dean some honor. This ring is my tribute to their love, a love that included all of us. Because love is never lost. So let us love one another, as Pilar loved Dean, that nearly, that dearly, that really.

Amen.

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2010

2010-01-31T19:50:00.001-06:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2010

Shaken Haiti Syndrome

Our “dear Pilar.” Everybody says it. You can’t help it. Pilar Harrison, this little lady with the heart of a saint, left us on January 27, at age 81. But I dare anyone to call her “old.” She was always the youngest person in the room. If you were anywhere near Parkway Schools in the last decades, you remember her. I attended her last “lesson” last spring in St. Louis, when she came out of retirement, you might say, to teach her former colleagues how to make a “tortilla espanola.” Let’s face it, it was just an excuse to be with Pilar! Her death leaves me shaken, but her goodness restores me to believe in wholeness. And nothing was fuller than the love between Pilar and Dean, her husband who passed away on Thanksgiving Day,1999. God bless their re-union....

Sensible people scoff at the idea of a limited or “targeted” nuclear bomb, a weapon indiscriminate by nature. But who would ever have thought of a targeted earthquake that would devastate Haiti while leaving the Dominican Republic, which shares the same island, virtually untouched? As incomprehensible as the suffering and loss are, the prospect of a planned attack leaves one’s faith in ruins, too. Quoting Robert Frost, “What but Design of darkness to appall--if Design govern in a thing so small.” But they were singing!

Is Death’s dark aim targeting Elvis’ family? Don Vidal, Elvis’ father, 71, is the latest casualty. He died a couple weeks after a drunken binge on Christmas Eve. He’d come close before, but this time he not only poisoned himself with booze but fell and hit his head, never to recover, despite being rushed to the hospital in San Pedro Sula. He was improving a tiny bit, and they were bringing him home, dazed and confused, barely conscious, not recognizing his own children. He died in the car just as they passed through Victoria, almost home to Las Vegas. The last time I mentioned Don Vidal in these reports, we were rejoicing; he had joined AA as a faithful member, the most eloquent and seemingly self-aware of any of the little group. A teacher and a natural orator, his own reflections on his alcoholism could fill another Blue Book (the AA “Bible”). But he fell off the wagon many times since, and I was just too embarrassed or something to tell you. His wife Yuya, so happy for a while--AA even met in their house sometimes!--is back to square one, I guess, and may move in with family in San Pedro Sula..

Actually, I was not there for the end of Don Vidal, since Chemo and I were in Tegucigalpa with Chemo’s sister Rosa and her husband Tonio, for the heart brigada, which declared Rosa improving enough with medicines that she did not need an operation. Chemo and I got back to Las Vegas just in time for the last 4 days of Don Vidal’s novenario, the nine days of prayer for the dead. The family has its own litany, Don Faustino, the patriarch, the only “natural” death, you could say, at 96, a couple years ago, then, in quick succession, Marvin, Elvis’ brother, run over by a taxi in New York City, Don Tomas, Elvis uncle, run down by a motorcycle in San Pedro Sula, Wil, Elvis’s nephew, shot by a gang that took offense at the Mother’s Day gift he was carrying, and now Don Vidal, pray for us, pray for us, pray for us, pray for us, pray for us.... Alcoholics Anonymous is so blessed a gift, like a child hidden in the hand of God, but even miracles don’t always “work.”

It only took five minutes for the doctors of the brigada doing Rosa’s echocardiogram to decide that Rosa did NOT need surgery, but those few minutes were embedded in a 12-day marathon with an “Avatar” budget. I had to smile, because in the States you’d get in your car, drive to the doctor, get your echo and the good news and head home, in time for lunch. Such is not Honduras. But I really had to smile, to think, our prayers had been answered, so the whole trip was well worth it. I had been tied in knots ever since the August brigada when Dr. Christian Gilbert first told us that he would be happy to see Rosa, 22, even though the brigada is for children. So we brought her in November, when we got to the very brink of surgery (Rosa was already in the hospital), and Dr. Gilbert reconsidered: “Let’s try some meds first.” Then January and another brigada: Rosa is improving, no surgery required! As Dr. Gilbert himself said, “Hallelujah!” Ron Roll and Alba, sponsors of Helping Hands for Honduras, had invited us, along with other families, to welcome the brigada at the airport. They were coming on American, Continental, and Delta flights, all arriving about the same time. Alba had lots of heart-shaped balloons and you should have seen Dr. Gilbert’s face light up when he saw Rosa.

I was not alone in my anxiety regarding Rosa, for which I must thank you for sharing the burden of prayer and lifting Rosa up. But the good news did not release us immediately--we had to do her teeth. Eleven cavities. She needed five appointments to get them all, and even with a 40% discount from the wonderful Dr. Juan Handal, I thought, Does anybody do teeth transplants? Rosa was very brave--I’m afraid I sat this one out. I stayed in the hall, while Tonio her husband and Chemo went into the chamber with her. Of course, even in the hall I could hear the buzz of the drill, but I didn’t have to worry about any blood spurting on me.

That is, till I got in the chair myself, to extract the tooth--finally!--that’s been bothering me since before I moved down here. It’s been capped and recapped and honed and cemented and “saved” till I finally cracked the root in half just before Christmas and it swung like a trap door. The dentist pulled it out in pieces. I’ve got a hole in my head now that makes me look even more like a Honduran, most of whom can’t afford “dental work,” so they just get them yanked--sometimes 2 or 3 at a time--at the local clinic for about a dollar apiece. I have not decided if I’ll get a replacement--depends on how bad I want to eat popcorn, I guess.

Birthday cake, of course, is no problem. So we celebrated little Jefferson’s 5th birthday, along with his little sister Helen, in the care of great-grandma Agnes. These kids are special for me since I pass their house daily on my way to Jacinto’s store. Dirt poor. I started the habit of getting them a little juice and snack at Jacinto’s and I thought, let’s do a birthday. In Tegucigalpa, I had picked up a couple “Avatar” toys at the airport McDonald’s--they’re blue and they light up, what more could you want? Just look at Jefferson’s smile--little does he realize he’s part of a billion-dollar promotion.

Speaking of visitors from beyond, Fermincito came home! He left to seek his fortune in the States just before the golpe de estado, and he returned just as Mel Zelaya rode off into the sunset. Coincidence? You be the judge! Ironically, Chemo and I were visiting Fermin and Maria and the family just when “Fer,” as he’s known, showed up. I was checking emails on my laptop, and Maria comes in. Making conversation, you know, I say, What do you hear from Fermincito? “He’s in the living room right now.” I think, I thought I knew Spanish, but that makes no sense at all! But there he was, now 20, a little worse for wear--he broke his left arm badly when a tractor turned over on him and he never really made it much past the Mexican border. When I asked him why he came back--besides the obvious hopelessness of the situation--he said to see his little daughter. But his father Fermin confided in me that Petronilla, Fer’s girlfriend, came to the house privately when there were rumors of Fer’s return, to say she would not see him and she would keep their little daughter away from him, too. So she’s in hiding. You see, Fer got in over his head with some gangs in Morazan, which is probably why he left town. Even Fermin wonders if he and Maria and the family are in danger, with Fer’s return. I mean, here gangs kill you if you’re in a gang, if you’re not in a gang, if you were in a gang, if want to get out of a gang--but this protocol is universal, yes?

Watching Chemo playing with Fermin and Maria’s youngest, Jose Miguel, I couldn’t believe it. Before his surgery, Chemo, now 15, was the same size as Jose Miguel, now 8. Chemo has sprung up like Alice in Wonderland (“Drink Me”) and good Lord! he’s a giant next to the kid.

Meanwhile, the new President of Honduras, Pepe Lobo, is also trying to measure up. His very first decision was the most controversial, but thank God! He actually interrupted his inaugural address to sign a pardon for ousted President Mel Zelaya. It was like Gerald Ford pardoning Nixon, an outrage to some, but we have to get the mess behind us. Then he personally escorted Mel from the Brazilian embassy, where he’s been since he sneaked back into Honduras in September, to the airport, where a plane arranged by the President of the Dominican Republic flew Mel off to that island paradise (?). Mel is living in a huge mansion for now, but I hope he knows he’s got a shovel-ready job at the other end of the island in Haiti. Hey, Mel! man of the people, right? Get busy! And the “interim” president, Roberto Micheletti, who was also covered by the amnesty, made no appearance at the inauguration, lest he be a “distraction.” He just quietly slipped away to his own hacienda outside El Progreso. So I’m done picking on them, I’m just so grateful there was no violence, no assassination attempts and so on.

We might get back on our feet--just in time for own earthquake....

Love, Miguel

REMEMBERING PILAR...in St. Louis

2010-01-30T20:31:00.002-06:00

REMEMBERING PILAR...in St. Louis

A memorial Mass is scheduled for Pilar Harrison at Incarnate Word Catholic Church, Saturday, February 13, 2010, at 10:00 a.m., reception following.

Incarnate Word Church is located at 13416 Olive Blvd. (by Woods Mill Rd. AKA 141), Chesterfield, MO 63017. (314-576-5366)

This is the same church where the memorial Mass for Pilar’s husband Dean was held some 10 years ago.

Pilar, 81, died January 27 at St. Luke's Hospital after a final illness. Little as she was, her Spirit is ever strong! She lived a charmed life, surviving Franco's Spain, till she found her Prince Charming in penpal Dean, who brought her as his wife to St. Louis, where she studied at St. Louis U. and began a long teaching career in the Parkway School District. She charmed so many of us, that I thought I would send everyone this e-mail.

Pilar was so good she found something charming in everyone, even in me! She left money to pay my airfare to St. Louis for her memorial. Hope to see at least some of you there!

While in St. Louis, February 4th through the 22nd, I am available on my GoPhone (314-605-3267) or at Teresa Jorgen’s house (314-966-5782).

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2010

2009-12-31T09:02:00.002-06:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2010

A thrill of hope

On December 2, following a day-long solemn and sober debate, televised on every channel, the National Congress voted 111 to 14 not to restore Mel Zelaya to the presidency. Thus was fulfilled the major element of the accord signed in November by Mel and “interim president” Roberto Micheletti, that Mel’s fate would rest in the hands of the diputados. Still lacking is a “government of reconciliation” and a Truth Commission.

Some people say Mel Zelaya was “the best president Honduras ever had.” That would make him the world’s tallest midget. In fact, poverty went up under Mel, with over 5 million (of a population of 7.5 million) in poverty, 3.5 million of those in “extreme” poverty, and at the bottom 1.5 million living on a dollar a day or less. Mel’s horse was living on a thousand dollars a day! With the wealthy world euthanizing the poor with ethanol--filling SUV gas tanks with food--it’s bound to get worse.

Now all eyes turn to Pepe Lobo, who had won the November 29 election by a landslide to become the next president, with inauguration scheduled for January 27. Hope and change? More likely another round of corruption, but it will be “our” corruption, you know, just the way we like it. Humorist Dave Barry’s “Year in Review” is probably more accurate than he knows: “In a setback for U.S. interests in Central America, voters in Honduras elect, as their new president, Rod Blagojevich.” Meanwhile, Mel Zelaya is still a thorn in the side. He says he’s leaving the country, he says he’s staying, he says he’s going--who cares? Follow him on Twitter.

So things have sort of settled down, and when I step back a little, I notice with some chagrin that I have enjoyed playing the role of political pundit these past few months way too much. Like I was auditioning for a spot on Fox News or something. These reports are supposed to be inspired a little more by the Sermon on the Mount than by talk radio!

So let’s get back to basics.

Cristian, 19, was shot in the stomach by his own drunken father at the cantina. He’s recovering, very unsurely and painfully. To be precise, he was hit in one of the few spots where death was not certain, it seems--about four inches to the left of his belly-button. Cristian, one of the “cantina boys,” as I call them, has appeared in these reports numerous times. You may remember his dear affection for his little nephew Eduar, who died a year ago at the age of 2. (We just visited his baby grave for the anniversary, Cristian was too weal to attend.) Berta and Chimino are Cristian’s parents, but when I say his own father shot him, I mean Carlos Montoya, his biological father, a little fling Berta had, I guess. A couple months ago, Cristian confided in me that Chimino wasn’t his real father. Actually, it’s more or less common knowledge, I find out. But it was Chimino who accompanied Cristian first to Victoria and then to the Yoro hospital and stayed at his bedside till he was out of danger, while Carlos was carted off to jail by the police. So who is Cristian’s real father, the drunk who shot him or the man who sat by his bed two days and nights without eating or drinking? (On the other hand, Chimino and Berta raised Cristian in a cantina! I mean, if my son were shot by a guy drunk on liquor I sold him, I’d think twice about selling any more booze--to anybody.)

Cristian is such a troubled youth. Ever since he turned 18 a year ago, I’ve been begging him to get out of Las Vegas and make a life for himself, a life without drunks cursing and vomiting and fighting in your living room. Now this. Supposedly an accident--Carlos was showing off his gun--but drunks don’t have “accidents.” The only good thing to come out of it was Berta closing the cantina for a couple days while Cristian’s life hung in the balance. When Cristian called me from the hospital after the shooting and, in a voice as thin as tissue paper, asked me, “Are you coming?” I immediately melted and said yes. I knew it was also a matter of money. Chimino had taken nothing with him, Berta had said she wanted to go but had no busfare, and Marvin, Cristian’s cousin who saw the whole thing, said he wanted to go. In fact, according to Marvin, Cristian probably saved his life. You see, Carlos fired his gun five times in the air, but then started pointing it at Marvin, just playing. Cristian screamed, “You still got a bullet in there!” and he jumped in front of Marvin just in time, as Carlos drooled, “Naw, it’s empty--see?” And bang!

When we got to the hospital, Cristian was already cleared to leave. But he barely seemed capable of movement. Berta and Marvin helped dress him with clothes Berta had brought from home (Cristian’s clothes, including his shoes and a favorite cap, had disappeared in the confusion) while Chimino and I got his prescriptions filled at the hospital pharmacy. I talked with the kindly nurses, who advised a nutritious diet and daily exercise. “Don’t just leave him in bed!”

“We need a wheel chair,” said Marvin. I thought, Oh boy, how long is that gonna take? But as I stepped into the hall, a wheel chair was sitting right there. “This is a sign,” I said to myself. “He’s going to be all right.” But his wound! The bullet wound itself is nothing, a pinprick, but the scar from the operation looks like they went in there with a backhoe. It’s as long as Chemo’s but much uglier. It looks more like soldering than surgery. I just hope it’s as secure as it looks. I really thought Cristian was going to faint just getting from the bed into the wheel chair. But we got him outside and found a cab, another torture, to squeeze his legs in. I told the taxi driver we had to stop for shoes--and a pillow! The cabbie took us into town and we got our goods right off the street. Then to the bus station, where the bus was just about to leave. The steps up looked like Everest! But we hoisted Cristian up and we were off--we thought. Turned out this bus was just a shuttle to the gas station where the regularly scheduled bus was being gassed up and maintenanced. So we had to get Cristian down and off and up and on, every inch a miserable mile. I thought, I’m gonna need another sign!

It’s at least a two-hour trip back to Victoria and we hadn’t even gone a third of the way when Cristian was saying, “I can’t make it, I can’t make it.” But he did make it, held and hugged tightly by Marvin all the way, and in Victoria we got him down and off that bus and up and on the bus to Las Vegas. Which just sat there, for an hour, waiting for another bus from San Pedro Sula. Holiday traffic, you see! Once in Las Vegas, okay, how to get him home, way to the other side of town?

Then came the other sign. Javier, a young man with a big car, spotted us hobbling and offered a ride. Cristian by this time had mastered the routine and practically jumped into the large plush back seat. Now Cristian is getting around with his brother Juny’s crutch. Juny, whose story graced these pages, died so painfully a couple years ago, nursed by--you guessed it--Cristian, who wore Juny’s clothes then for a while afterwards, to smooth the loss.

Cristian and I have had our go-arounds. One day he’d bring me a couple fish he caught, the next day he’d be a stone wall for some real or imagined offense. And sometimes he’d show up at my house half-drunk himself. Then I’d usher him into the spare room. “I’m not staying.” “That’s all right, Cristian, just a nap.” And he’d be there till morning. Anything’s better than the cantina.

Our last row was a week or so before he got shot. It was the night Chepito got drunk. It was the same night Dona Argentina died. In fact, about half the town it seemed used her wake as an excuse to get plastered. I headed over to her house about 9 p.m., along with Chemo and his brother Marcos, visiting for the holidays. Elvis had already warned me that he’d seen Chepito under the influence, but I didn’t expect to find him right out in the street spinning like a dreidel, accompanied by Nahum and Cristian, both tipsy too. The only “job” I’ve given Nahum, who sleeps at the Bandidos’ house, and Cristian, is to keep tabs on Pablito and Chepito. He gave Chepito the guaro!

So I blew a gasket. I smacked Nahum with a classic “Life of Christ” I’m reading. I swear, I could hardly have found a better use for the heavy volume! Nahum responded by whipping me with his belt buckle. I’ve still got the welt, but I didn’t feel a thing. I fronted him like Joan of Arc, and he backed off. I didn’t care if he killed me! I make no apology for defending Chepito’s right to a sober life. Then I turned on Cristian, who cussed me out very colorfully and gestured pretty violently, though without actually landing any blows. I “complimented” him on his vocabulary and then I yelled at the bystanders, a gallery of what Mark Twain called half-men, including Chepito’s teacher, who made no move to help him or me. I pulled Chepito home, where his mother Irene, all too late, “disciplined” her son with his own belt.

Needless to say, I never made it to Argentina’s. I rushed Chemo and Marcos back to our house and shut up the doors.

The next day, Leon came home, Chepito and Pablito’s father, after a year and a half in jail for drunkenly attacking Nazario with a machete. I didn’t actually see him myself till I headed back to Argentina’s again and saw him drunk face-down in the street like a heap of dirty laundry. So he picked up just where he left off. You know, a guy’s in jail all that time, gets out, you can hardly begrudge him a little lifting of a cup or two, but alcoholism is a death sentence and Leon’s disease is pulling his sons down to his hell, too. The saddest thing was Pablito’s seeming indifference, his only defense against the killing shame he must feel. “Pablito, are you going take your daddy home?” “No, that’s okay.”

So Leon just lay there for all the world to see. He sobered up some the next day, got drunk again, got a few odd jobs, got paid, got drunk--you’ve probably observed this pattern yourself somewhere. Finally, I saw him, all smiles and handshakes. Not a word about the new house we built, not a word about how he’d take care of Pablito and Chepito now, see them through school, raise them to honorable manhood, nothing about how he’d rejoin AA and be as faithful to the group as the chastened Scrooge to Tiny Tim, nothing. I have mostly steered clear, just opening my house to Pablito’s daily visits for a little breakfast, a little lunch if there are leftovers, a chore or two for a few bucks. Chepito, Leon’s image and likeness, sports a big ring on his finger and a huge belt buckle, both set with skulls. I’m trying to help him get him his national ID card, now that he’s 17. But it seems he’s already chosen his identity.

With Argentina’s burial began the nine days of mourning and prayer at her house. I think I finally loved her--she was not a pleasant person a lot of the time--when her fragile stick of a husband Domitilo collapsed in tears in my arms every single day. She’s got 13 children, all grown, the most infamous of which is Renan, a drunk’s drunk. He’s got some competition from 3 or four of his brothers, but Renan parades it! Disheveled and slobbering, he dances! barges into any event, a wedding, a party, a funeral, in this case, his own mother’s, who’d always shut her door whenever he came near, crying, “You’re a disgrace!”

When it came my turn to preach, I remembered we’d just had the elections, when there was a two-day ‘ley seca,’ or dry law, banning liquor sales nationwide. “Today we start a ‘ley seca’ in this house in honor of Argentina! No more booze! Never again! She gave her life for you all! [Indeed, she was only 58 and she looked like a 158 from the toll her graceless family had taken on her]. We’re going to swear off alcohol, but let’s all swear off selfishness too, and laziness, and irresponsibility.” Of the 13 kids, Lupe, the shining exception to the rule, the only one with a recognizably filial devotion, and who has a lovely family of her own with her husband Lenchito in El Zapote, attended the novena every day. On the eighth day, Renan, almost unrecognizable with his hair cut, a new shirt and slacks, and a benign demeanor, offered prayer right along with the rest of us. I hugged him like the Prodigal Son. But it was a one-day wonder. He’s back in the dirt long since.

Marta, the youngest daughter, and one of the most slovenly, redeemed herself and maybe all of us with her narration of Argentina’s final minutes. They had gotten her to the very door of the San Pedro Sula hospital when she collapsed, and in one grand gesture of self-donation, she spread her arms wide and up and lifted her head toward heaven, mouthing without speaking some prayer, then sank dead into Marta’s lap, a blessed smile on her face. It sounded for all the world like Jesus’ departure on the cross: “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”

Before Cristian was shot, I had already been going to the cantina every day to change the bandage on his little nephew Joelito. He climbed a tree to pick (steal!) lemons and fell onto a broken branch that pierced his calf at its fleshiest spot, opening a wound deep and jagged enough to expose the fat and muscle. Long tutored to remain calm in emergencies from my days working at a swimming pool, I thought, when I saw the wound, OK, first I’m going to faint, and THEN I’ll remain calm. But I held it together and we--me and Cristian, who had brought him to me--hurried him over to Dr. Meme, who is sometimes hard to find, after hours. But Meme was in and stitched Joel up, inside and outside the wound. A week later, when Meme took the stitches out, the wound re-opened, so he said, “Just keep changing the bandage till it heals.” Bottom line, that day when Cristian was shot, I could have easily been at the cantina myself, changing Joelito’s bandage. And something tells me I wouldn’t have been any Joan of Arc facing a gun instead of a belt! But I was hiking to La Catorce for a Mass at the time. Oqueli’s blue pickup whizzed by me in a cloud of dust with Cristian and Marvin and Chimino in the back and I didn’t even know what had happened till Marvin called me on his cell phone.

What about Christmas? Well, any light in the darkness qualifies, which these stories show, I believe, but OK, how about an actual nativity? On December 2, Maricela gave birth to Mariana Teresa, named for my sister Mary Anne, who died last April, and for Teresa Jorgen. Weighing in at 10 pounds, she is worthy of two such grand names. In fact, the doctor induced Maricela a couple weeks early, at the Hospital Escuela in Tegucigalpa, because the baby just wouldn’t stop growing! This is an honor all around, and my sisters Barb and Nancy, who accompanied Mary Anne in her last days, were scrambling for Christmas presents for the newest member, as it were, of the Dulick family. And Teresa made sure her appreciation was felt, too. And this kid sure lucked out, with such a loving family of her own. Juan Blas and Maricela and their 6, now 7, kids are poor as church mice, and I do my best to keep them afloat, but some things money cannot buy. I keep trying to figure out how they could adopt Pablito and Chepito...or me, for that matter.

Actually, Chemo and Marcos’ grandmother Natalia has adopted me. Just after the elections, Chemo’s brother Santos and his wife Alba, daughter of Natalia, and their four kids went off to the mountains of Quebrada Amarilla to pick coffee. There went our gravy train! We’d been going over to their house down by the river every night for supper, once I had stopped my own spaghetti suppers for all comers after Chemo got away and got drunk one night and I resolved to be a better dad, and spend more time with him.

Those were such pleasant evenings, Alba’s suppers; and the walk home under the street lamps and the stars seemed like a dream. So, after some hesitation, when Chemo and Marcos were already over at ‘mamita’s’ all the time, I sort of insinuated myself with Natalia and Elio her husband and their three grown sons. As with Alba, I finance the fixings, and Natalia whips up the simple and delicious meals; so our sweet evenings have resumed, including the quiet walk home. That’s a Christmas story, too, on a nightly basis--always room at the inn.

As for Christmas itself, our “Midnight Mass” started at 6:00 p.m., with guest priest Fr. Tony Pedraz from El Progreso. He looks like Santa Claus, red face, tussled white hair, roly-poly, so when he tells the Christmas story, you believe him! But his message, his gospel, if you will, glowed a lot brighter than Rudoph: it was a fire! He was (is!) a full-fledged member of the ‘resistencia’ (the Resistance), denouncing from the beginning the coup that ousted Mel Zelaya, and in the streets at every opportunity, a chaplain to the marchers, you might say. His sermon lasted an hour, but the congregation was enthralled; time passed like a blink. He barely talked about Mel or Micheletti by name--he talked about Jesus! which made the same point. The repulsive thing that both Mel and Micheletti--and Pepe, too--are guilty of is, it’s all about them. Ever since Jesus’ birth first scared the pants off Herod the King, in his raging, the die was cast: make Jesus a target, make Jesus a joke, make him a cover-boy, make him your pal, make him your pet, make him your Che, make him your jewelry, make him your “Lord,” but watch your back! He’s a thief in the night.

Cristian, who never goes to church, preached the same sermon in his own way: he “pardoned” Carlos Montoya! He told the police to let him out of jail. Carlos was grateful enough to bring some provisions for the family over to the cantina--for a few days. “And now he’s forgotten you?” I asked Cristian. “Pretty much.” But Cristian’s charity should not be forgotten. I wish I could live it so well.

We ended the year with Ery’s birthday party. Carolina made the cake, this one for her own brother, and Angelita is here, too, with her baby. She loves to dance with her brother. Ery turned 22, and he had a good time. He even danced with me! It was a sign, I hope, of blessings to come in 2010.

In January we begin another odyssey in search of Rosa’s heart operation. A doctor in Tocoa told her, “You are a candidate for a heart transplant.” That’s how sick she is! A transplant here, of course, is unheard of. The first kidney transplants are just about to be attempted. It’s not for lack of fresh kills. Healthy teens are sacrificed every day in gang activity; live hearts abound. But the nearest Barnes Hospital is...Barnes Hospital. On the other hand, I just talked to Ron Roll, whose Helping Hands sponsors the brigadas, and he enthused, “We’re already talking about Rosa! We are putting her first on the list!” And Dr. Christian Gilbert just emailed me to say, after I told him Rosa is feeling better and stronger with the medicine he prescribed, “This is awesome news! She may not even need the surgery!” Now that’s the kind of “second opinion” I like to hear! But when I called Rosa with the good news, she goes, “Oh, crap, today my knees are killing me, my chest hurts like hell, my stomach’s in knots, and I got a horrible headache.” “Rosa,” I said, “whatever you do, don’t tell the doctor!” Anyway, please include Rosa in your New Year’s resolutions, to transplant a bit of your own heart in her hopes.

Love, Miguel

From Giuseppe Ricciotti, The Life of Christ (1941):

“The Sermon on the Mount is the most complete and radical paradox ever asserted. No discourse on earth was ever more subversive, or better, reversive than this. Until the Sermon on the Mount, the world was united in proclaiming that blessedness was good fortune, that satisfaction came with satiety, that pleasure was the satisfaction of desire, and honor the product of esteem. On the other hand, Jesus announces that blessedness resides in misfortune, satiety in famished hunger, pleasure in unfulfillment, and honor in disesteem. “

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2009

2009-11-30T14:30:00.001-06:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2009

Habemus Pepe

Finally! Elections in Honduras!

And the winner is...Pepe Lobo, the National Party candidate, by a landslide, over the Liberal Party candidate Elvin Santos, the empty suit I called an Elvis impersonator in my dispatches last year when he won the nomination. Pepe Lobo is no empty suit--I won’t say what he is full of, but I call him Pepe Lodo, which means ‘mud,’ or a similar substance. It was to be expected, since Mel Zelaya, the president ousted in a coup last June 28, was a Liberal. Elvin saw it coming, he had to have, as he tried desperately to distance himself from Mel’s disgrace, even though he had started out as Mel’s vice-president till he quit to run for president himself. Oh, you’re gonna love Pepe, he makes Sarah Palin look like Ralph Nader. It’s Mel’s ultimate revenge--You guys didn’t want me to let me be president for life, well, four years of Pepe will seem like an eternity!

You know, they call Honduras a “banana republic.” More like a banana peel! And the latest to slip was Mel Zelaya himself. I ended the November CASA with the hopeful news of an agreement to end the crisis. Mel, the ousted president, signed on, Micheletti, the “de facto” president, signed on. The U.S. A. loved it. The whole world was thrilled. The “spirit” of the agreement suggested Mel’s return to power, certainly, but left the actual decision up to the national Congress, after consulting with the Supreme Court, the Electoral Tribunal, and the Armed Forces. And all parties agreed to recognize the winner of the November 29 elections. Somebody must have taken Mel aside and pointed out, You know what you’ve done? You just legitimized all the institutions you defied before: the Supreme Court that ordered your arrest, the Congress that replaced you with Micheletti, the Electoral Tribunal that ruled your Cuarta Urna unconstitutional, and the Army that FedExed you out of the country. While Micheletti dithered about scheduling any vote in Congress for restoration, the U.S. State Department “clarified” its support for the elections--that is, with or without Mel’s reinstatement. Mel cried foul and urged a boycott of the elections. “Obama stabbed me in the back! I wouldn’t accept reinstatement now, even if ya begged me!” Obama, in his unflappable style, just applied the diplomatic equivalent of Ritalin and looked the other way.

So we hobbled along till this past Sunday, November 29, the nicest day we’ve had in a month--sunny, pretty clouds dotting a blue sky, comfortable breezes blowing, a lovely day. I went up to the school early to see if any people really were voting. Many people, thoroughly disillusioned, had simply sworn off the whole process this time. But, by golly, folks were voting! Mostly old folks and women at first, and eventually younger voters and even some of the “resistencia.” Throughout the country turnout exceeded all expectations--over 60%--and most welcome of all, there was no violence.

Micheletti, who’s been in politics longer than Obama’s been alive, may have outsmarted him. Lookit, we had the elections and Mel’s not coming back, despite the “official” U.S. position that Micheletti is an illegitimate “golpista,” a coup plotter. (And don’t get me wrong, Micheletti is intolerable, the usurper with the Santa smile.) But even Micheletti, the Liberal lion, wasn’t counting on Pepe’s victory. See, Mel’s whole idea was to wreck the elections, and Micheletti’s whole idea was to “save” them. But, save them for Pepe? On the other hand, even the kids around here like Chemo love Pepe! They’ve seen too many “Die Hard” movies; they think Pepe is Bruce Willis, he’s gonna clean out the gangs and the bad guys. Indeed, as a cartoon hero, Pepe is perfect.

Lots of countries are still refusing to recognize the elections, because Mel remains outside. On the other hand, even President Oscar Arias of Costa Rica, the original negotiator solicited by Hillary Clinton for the “dialog” between Mel and Micheletti, finally said, What the heck--if the elections come off clean, why not recognize the winner? You know, it’s strange. As Obama has said, democracy is “not just elections.” So when will the world community say to a country--Honduras would be a prime example--we won’t recognize your government till your children are no longer victims of Ignorance and Want (the urchins ‘neath the robe of the Ghost of Christmas Present. Check them out in the new Jim Carrey version.) By that standard, very few nations have any claim to make.

Speaking of Charles Dickens, “Bleak House”--a 900-page novel without a plot--was the perfect accompaniment to our endless odyssey with Chemo’s sister Rosa in hopes of heart surgery. In both cases, I kept waiting for something to happen. You can’t say Dickens does not warn you; the book opens in a fog that never lifts. I sort of felt the same way. Jarndyce and Jarndyce, the ‘case’ stalled in Chancery for decades, serves only to enrich the lawyers. In our case, our three-week trek to Tocoa, to Tegucigalpa, and back to Tocoa served mainly to profit every bus, restaurant, hotel, and taxi driver along our route.

Let me repeat some information, because not everyone got my little updates on Rosa.

I had prayed to conform my mind to the will of God, whether for Rosa’s life--or death. I was not prepared for “Wait.” But you can’t say Dr. Christian Gilbert, like Dickens, didn’t warn us. He was alarmed, in that doctorly, sober kind of way, at Rosa’ s gravity. She’s got a mitral valve like the Lincoln Tunnel. He had brought a replacement valve with him from Memphis, but finally he doubted Rosa’s strength and his own skill for success. Cautioned no doubt by the very sad deaths of two children during the brigada, little hearts that could not be fixed, he postponed Rosa till January, when the brigada returns.

I finished ‘Bleak House,’ with room to spare. There is a story, even it there’s barely a plot, and it’s the story of the poor and what they suffer, even from their supposed ‘benefactors.’ Dragging Rosa and her husband Tonio all over creation for nothing in particular, I sort of felt maybe it was my story. And some of you made such sacrifices to ease our expenses, I was embarrassed at my empty hands. But, thinking always of your kindnesses, I kept a happy face and never suggested I was headed for debtor’s prison! Chemo was our guide, he never tired of the arcade at the mall, even though a couple grenades had been discovered in the restrooms. We visited the hilltop zoo and the big statue of Jesus that overlooks the city. We went to a museum (OK, that was a mistake), and we ate four times a day. Rosa, the skinniest one among us, never got full!

Surely Dr. Gilbert made the right decision, and may not be ready to risk the operation even in January. You know, if you saw the Hospital Escuela, where Rosa’s surgery was scheduled, you’d bar the door, too. (Chemo was operated on at the Seguro Hospital, a more modern semi-private facility.) The place looks like a set from ‘Children of Men,’ or the Titanic, after the sinking. It’s a greasy, rusty, sordid mess. Talk about embarrassing! It’s the shame of Honduras, where I have yet to hear a politician propose the construction of a new hospital, and most of them--including Mel, Micheletti, or Pepe or Elvin Santos, who OWNS the biggest mall in Tegucigalpa--could finance a dozen hospitals out of their personal fortunes. The real heroes are the doctors and nurses who work in impossible conditions to save some lives. As we were checking Rosa into the hospital, a process which for some strange reason, runs through the emergency room, the young, unperturbable doctor Karen Herrera, filling the forms, had to jump up at least three times, to help revive a man who coded, to tend a gunshot victim escorted by the police who shot him, and a man with some ghastly wound on his foot. I thought, dear God! Rosa’s gonna need surgery just to get out of this room! I swear the cop’s gun actually brushed my arm as he was holding his prey in place. This’d be great, I thought, if the victim’s buddies come in here to rescue him, guns blazing....

Once she was in, it was not that easy to visit Rosa the next day. The woman at the gate was not going to let us in, that is, all three of us--Tonio, Chemo, and me--till she mentioned Tonio’s ‘sombrero,’ and I said, “Like Mel!” And she corked up and pumped her fist in the air, “Suba Mel! Suba Mel!” Up with Mel! Up with Mel! I had another phrase in mind for Mel, also involving the word ‘up,’ but I took the hint and echoed her enthusiasm. When she said, How about the folks in Tocoa, they’re with Mel, right? “They love him!” I lied. Mel, as the massive vote for Pepe just showed, is anything but popular up there. But it got us in.

That’s what I mean by the good folks forced to work in a snakepit. She was a sweetie, under the crust. Just like the good woman with rings on each finger and red make-up who let us in with our little band of blood donors. Ron Roll, the founder, with his wife Alba, of Helping Hands that sponsors the heart surgery brigada, had said, in his inimitable malapropism, “Miguel, I don’t know if they need 5 or 6 gallons,” when I asked how many pints we had to get. We started with Tonio, arriving about 6 a.m. to get in line and we spent all morning waiting in more lines. Tonio told them, “Take two pints!” and I wish they could have. The next day I got there at 5:00 a.m. with 3 more donors, but only one qualified, and it still took all morning. The one who qualified, Karla, from Las Vegas now living in Tegucigalpa, recruited 4 of her neighbors for the next day, and this time I got there at 4:00 and was almost first in line. I held the spot till the others showed up at 5:30, as we arranged, and that’s when we needed help. Delmys had just turned 18, the minimum age for donation, and she didn’t have her I.D. yet, just the receipt. Somehow I talked the woman at the window outside into accepting that, and then the nurse at the blood bank itself inside. They COULD have cut us off without a chance, but you could just see they really did want to help us. And they found a way. It is the will of God, I think, touching our heart. And in the hospital, a pastor and his wife came and offered to pray over Rosa. And they did touch her heart.

And Chemo was on TV! The most popular newshow, “Abriendo Brecha” (loosely translated, ‘Showing the Way’) invited Ron Roll and the president of the Rotary Club, also a sponsor of the brigada, and three kids, a 2-year-old and and an 8 year-old and their daddies, and Chemo. I don’t think they understood that I was Chemo’s daddy, but that was OK because I could snap photos of the big-screen TV in the lobby of the studio. Chemo did not speak, but I loved the way Ron Roll placed his hand on Chemo’s shoulder.

Once we got Rosa back home to Tocoa, with quick visits to two doctors and Rufina (Rosa, Chemo, and Marcos’ mother), Chemo and I returned to Las Vegas, bringing along Chemo’s brother Marcos, just as we did last year. Then word came that my computer was ready for pickup--in Tegucigalpa. I mentioned last month it had been damaged by some window-shopper who tried to pull it out of my house. Miraculously, Apple honored the warranty, still in effect, for repairs that would have cost at least $500.00, replacing the screen and the keyboard. And it works, well, better than new! But it meant another trip to Tegucigalpa. I decided to kill two birds with one stone, and fulfill my promise to Pablito and Chepito if they passed fourth grade to take them to the big city. So, with Chemo and Marcos, we were 5. One cab driver had to say, Listen, if you see any police, one of you duck down--four in the rear seat is illegal! As soon as we got there, I got my MacBook, then to the mall for shoes and pants and shirts for everyone. Pablito had completely walked off the soles of his Keds and Chepito’s were mere strips. We checked into the hotel, one room, two big beds--I was not about to let them have a room to themselves! and headed back to the mall, for Pizza Hut and the arcade. The next day we saw “2012” at the movies--which, you’d have to say, in Honduras, the effect of the end of the world would be negligible, but its endless scenes of destruction bored even these kids. Elio and Mema graciously accepted our invitation to lunch the next day, and patiently advised the boys to stay with school, work hard, respect Miguel. We went to the zoo (where my digital camera stopped working and it is NOT under warranty) and the big Jesus. And the arcade, and we ate four times a day. So I guess I spent that $500.00 after all....

But if you want excess, try Facebook. On second thought, don’t! Somebody hacked into my account and started launching spam--like I don’t gas enough myself!--I was so mad I logged on at the first opportunity and canceled my account, period. I never really “got” Facebook. So somebody made a sandwich, that’s wonderful. And I never did find my “wall.” But I was happy to find long-lost friends, so if you’re still hooked up and someone wonders what happened to Dulick, give them my email address, please, or direct them to my blog, michaeldulick.blogspot.com.

From “Bleak House”: “The poor only may and can, or shall and will be reclaimed according to somebody’s theory but nobody’s practice.” But then there’s Mrs. Bagnet: “She receives Good to her arms without a hint that it might be Better and catches light from any little spot of darkness near her.” And there is even a Rosa in the book, with her “pretty village face,” just like Chemo’s sister.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2009

2009-10-31T09:38:00.002-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA—NOVEMBER 2009

Touched by an angel

Honduras is going to the World Cup! With seconds left in a game with Costa Rica, Jonathan Bornstein scored a goal for the United States. That goal, combined with Honduras’ victory over El Salvador the same night, clinched a berth for Honduras in the World Cup, the global soccer tournament that makes the World Series look like hopscotch. (Of course, if the Cardinals had gotten a little farther…) Both games were played at the same time, the whole country was flipping channels all night. Honduras’ game ended, and we held our breath for the longest minute of our lives. If you felt a sudden lift beneath your feet, it was 7 million Hondurans—and at least one gringo—all leaping into the air at the same time. With one kick—actually, it was a header—Jonathan Bornstein did more for peace between our countries than anyone has in 5 months. Hondurans waved American flags, gingos donned Honduran soccer jerseys. Let’s just say it was a miracle.

The celebration was overdue. The last time Honduras was in the World Cup was 1982. In those days, I didn’t even know what the World Cup was. But I soon learned. In those days, Padre Patricio and I rode mules from village to village, and we would get updates from folks glued to radios spitting static. Ever since, I’ve agonized with Honduras every 4 years, hoping maybe this time…

In Las Vegas, a spontaneous erupted as the whole town poured into the streets. All 6 cars in town formed an impromptu parade, bristling with cheering fans, a conga line wound around the soccer field, the Las Vegas Band, who just recorded a CD, set up their keyboards and loudspeakers, folks shook my hand to thank me as for the U.S. assist to Honduras’ hopes, finally fulfilled. So we’re going to South Africa, the host of the 2010 World Cup. We should feel right at home, since I understand their crime rate is about the same as ours.

Speaking of crimes, that night of celebration ended horribly for me, when I lost track of Chemo in all the hubbub and finally found him dead drunk in a mud puddle in a dark street, barely breathing. Chepito, of all people, helped me with him, carry him home, pull off his wet clothes, and cold shower him for about 40 minutes, then get him into bed. Chemo was unconscious, and I wished I were. Because I did blame myself, you know. I thought I’d killed my son. I checked him every 10 minutes to be sure he was still alive. When I touched him about 2 in the morning, he was soaking wet, and so was the bed. The inevitable had happened—the liquor had recycled through his bladder. I got him into a dry bed and started over.

The next day was a national holiday to celebrate the World Cup, so I assumed there’d be no school. But when I saw kids heading for class, I told Doricell to tell Profe Nancy that Chemo was ‘sick.’ About 8 a.m. Chemo stirred. ‘I’m hungry.’ He wanted soup, so I fixed the biggest Cup o’ Soup I could and he slurped it up in a couple minutes. At recess time, Profe Nancy sent a couple little classmates for Chemo, lest he miss the last day of regular class (the next day was a party). Chemo bounced up, threw on his uniform, and ran off to school, just like nothing had happened. I went along behind, to tell Profe Nancy what had happened.

Maybe I have finally become a father. I thought, I have to take care of Chemo FIRST. I can’t be feeding half the neighborhood when I don’t even know sometimes where Chemo is. I can’t be running off to all these meetings and groups and celebraciones and not spend time with my own kid. Actually, I had already decided to cut the nightly spaghetti suppers down to Sundays only, once ‘summer vacation’ began. Now I decided to implement the new regime at once.

It’s been a delight! I told Chemo I’m not trying to punish him or hog-tie him, I’m just trying to put him first. So I don’t do ‘my’ thing until I know where Chemo is. He’s usually with Santos his brother and Alba and the kids at their house. They just got electricity—I paid for 350 feet of wire to connect them to the nearest post—so it’s better than ever for evening visits. Now I can leave my house, hang around at the soccer field as Chemo and I wait for Santos to leave the AA meeting, and I’ve even gone to their house for supper, to enjoy Alba’s version of spaghetti, with a little bone of chicken on the side. Delicious!

One Sunday, instead of Mass—and it was going to be big, with First Communions and all—I skipped out to accept the invitation of our AA group to go to Las Cañas for their chapter’s anniversary. It’s just about 20 minutes outside Victoria by car, and it was great. I took Chemo, Santos took his son Santitos, Don Jose took his kids Uladislao and Rigo. There was just as much grace and faith in the men’s testimony—plus a few cusswords for spice!—as you’d find in any church.

This CASA may look a little different this month—if indeed I can send it at all—because I’m patching things together after my laptop got mangled when someone tried to pull it out of my office through a slashed screen, a broken window, and an iron grate. That was on my birthday, October 12. Some present, huh? But that was after the party, with delicious food prepared by Dora and Brenda, whose husband Wilfredo celebrates the same day, so the whole day wasn’t spoiled. My MacBook is at the biggest electronics store in Honduras, where they sell Apple products. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that they will honor the guarantee still in effect. Only ‘Normal Use’ is covered, of course. But hey, in Honduras, defenestration of all types is normal!

In fact, ousted president Mel Zelaya may be coming back inside, thanks to an 'agreement' that was suddenly announced between Mel and de facto president Roberto Micheletti when some heavy-hitters from the U.S. State Department came down here and twisted some arms. It would create a 'government of reconciliation': Mel-chiletti? Obi-wan-Kenobi said, 'Use The Force,' looks like Obama-wan-Kenobi used The Prize, the Nobel Peace Prize, that is. Dear God! if we do get peace, it will be another miracle.

After the class party, Profe Nancy took Chemo aside and quietly counseled him for about 10 minutes. I wasn’t close enough to hear, but I could tell she loved him, her wings enfolding him. She’ll be his teacher again in third grade, and I couldn’t ask for anyone better.

Meanwhile, Lily graduated first in her class at the National School of Music, and she’s not even 18 yet. Elvis and Dora went to Tegucigalpa for the ceremony. I was invited as a special guest, but suddenly, Doctora Karla fired a flare to come to Tegucigalpa--with Rosa! I stammered and stuttered. If she had told me to take a flight to the Moon and get back by Wednesday, I would have thought it more likely. I grabbed the fattest little book I had, Charles Dickens' 'Bleak House,' and off we went, Chemo and I. We got from Las Vegas to Tocoa in one day--9 hours, 6 buses--and back to Tegucigalpa the next--9 hours, 1 bus--with Rosa and her husband Tonio. The key here was another angel, when Tonio's buddy gave us a ride to the bus station at 5:00 in the morning. He saw us standing in the dark at the edge of their village hoping for a local bus that never came.

Next day, Rosa had her appointment, and Ron Roll just wrapped his big arms around her and told her, 'Everybody knows about Rosa!' And he's all over Chemo, 'Get over here, big guy!' A doctor and nurse who had arrived early in advance of the Brigada checked her out and consulted directly with her soon-to-be surgeon Dr. Christian Gilbert, live from his office in Memphis via Skype. 'I'll bring the valve,' he said. The man's a genius, an angel you could say.

But he can't make blood. The hospital needs 6 pints, a sort of downpayment before the surgery. Tonio gave the first pint. It took all morning waiting in 4 different lines, and I couldn't imagine getting any more. Scavenging for donors, qualified donors, you see, because not everyone willing to donate CAN donate, like me, with my hepatitis still cobwebbed in my bloodstream.

From 'Bleak House': 'What the poor are to the poor is little known, except to themselves and God.' Sometimes the door opens a crack, and you can see inside.... Pray for us, be good to us, and I will update you shortly, I hope, on Rosa's surgery.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2009

2009-09-30T21:32:00.002-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2009

Peace Sells...But Who’s Buying?

On September 21 President Mel Zelaya, ousted in a coup on June 28, crept back into Honduras on little cat feet, hitching about 15 clandestine rides from El Salvador, and popping up like a Jack-in-the-box at the Brazilian embassy in the very heart of Tegucigalpa, igniting a frenzy among his delirious fans. For a couple days riots ensued, as the “Resistance” and the police beating them away re-staged the 1969 Rolling Stones Altamont concert hosted by the Hell’s Angels, for your viewing pleasure. After weeks of neglect, Honduras shot into the headlines again. The “interim” President, Roberto Micheletti, said, “Good for you, Mel--you’re under arrest,” and he told Brazil to hand him over. He toyed with the idea of going in after Mel, then said, “He can just stay there for 5 or 10 years,” then he invited Mel to “dialog.” All this within the first 24 hours.

And then a little miracle happened. With practically no warning and less planning, the four presidential candidates (‘los presidenciables’), who, despite representing four different political parties, have been campaigning more or less in tandem like the Four Musketeers to present a united front for the elections scheduled November 29, jumped on the invitation to dialog. They met with Micheletti at the presidential palace, and then just rode over to the Brazilian embassy and dropped in on Mel. I tell you, I could hardly believe the pictures--back-slapping, hand shakes, smiles and hugs all around. It looked like the Cardinals clubhouse after clinching another championship. Some of these guys have threatened to kill each other in the past!

Things had looked very grim, with Mel getting sort of kooky, claiming “they” were poisoning him with radon gas or something and hiding Israeli assassins in the bushes. But this scene was a delight. Now, if it can just get our country back on track. Everyone agrees the elections are the only solution to the crisis, but lately there has been zero interest in voting, it seemed so pointless.

Then, suddenly, another turn, for the worse. Previously so proud of the freedoms he “preserved” by deposing Mel, Micheletti went a little crazy in the head á la Dr. Strangelove and decreed martial law--no assembling, no dissenting, no talking, no warrants, no warning. Not a lot different, really, from the police-state tactics in the streets of Pittsburgh during the recent G-20 Summit. But even Micheletti’s loyalists think he’s lost his mind. He’s certainly lost his trump card, his vaunted legality (see next paragraph). Panicked, the ‘presidenciables’ abruptly changed their tune from “We Are the World” to Megadeth. They fell all over themselves to condemn this latest threat to “democracy,” that is, to their own slim hope of legitimacy. Micheletti, for his part, said the crackdown was necessary to counter Mel’s continuing calls for “revolution.” Indeed, when Mel sounded the alarm for “the final push,” even his host President Lula of Brazil cautioned Mel to simmer down. And the U.S. State Department advised that Mel’s dramatics were “foolish.” Then, another little miracle: Micheletti quickly repented and promised to reverse the restrictions, begged forgiveness of “the people,” and he sent Lula a “big hug.” Jim Carrey plays more stable characters!

A legal study just published by the U.S. Library of Congress found Mel’s removal from the presidency constitutional, according to Honduran law, though not his removal from the country. You know, some readers have been confused by my reports--the result both of my glancing blows and even more because of the insane situation--but let me summarize. Unlike the U.S. constitution, some articles in the Honduran constitution cannot be amended, especially its strict one-term limit for the president. Furthermore, the constitution declares even the attempt to amend this provision an act of treason that automatically separates an official from their office. Mel forced the issue when he insisted on a sham balloting scheduled for June 28 to extend his term. The Supreme Court judged that Mel had crossed the line and they ordered his arrest, for treason. The army grabbed him and flew him out of the country. So the presidency was vacant, and Roberto Micheletti, president of Congress, next in constitutional succession (Honduras has no Vice-President) was sworn in. So there you are. Easy as pie. Very neat, on paper. Now, back to the real world, where, as the protesters at the G-20 in Pittsburgh would have noted, the poor should have had their say, too. In fact, conditions are so desperate here that maybe all the poor will say, “I’m going to America!” You already have a million Hondurans up there, what’s a few million more? Very inviting, especially with “Obamacare” in view...!

I’ll tell you who was right in the middle of the mess--a very pregnant Maricela, who went to Tegucigalpa for a check-up the day before Mel’s lightning-strike return and was trapped in the chaos. No buses, no cabs, nothing but a 24-hour curfew for days on end, and no appointments kept at the hospital. This is her seventh pregnancy, so she knows how that goes, but it’s the first one where she’s had to dodge tear-gas canisters. Here I am holed up with Chemo in our bunker in Las Vegas, and there’s Maricela out there risking her life! With diabetes and high blood pressure, she really needs some careful monitoring for the baby due in December, who she “knows” is a girl (seven kids gives you some authority, no doubt). She plans to name her Teresa--for Teresa Jorgen--and Mariana, for my sister Mary Anne, who died, you remember, last April. Sometimes you have to wonder, what if we could just keep politicians like Mel and Micheletti barefoot and pregnant and out of sight...? Or, to take it from the other angle, why isn’t Maricela president of Honduras? A mother, instead of a...”mother”...if ya know what I mean....

After months of frustration with my short-wave radio, I finally thought, Podcasts! I found some of my “favorites” on iTunes, including Alex Jones, the nuclear yellow-cake of talk radio, just in time to find him sling-shotting actor Charlie Sheen into the 9/11 conspiracy debate. Did you know that the planes that hit the Twin Towers were drones? This all sounded more consequential when it was the only broadcast I could get on the radio as I drifted off to sleep. On an iPod in the cold light of day, I want to scream, but I guess it keeps me young, the blood circulating, you know, when it isn’t curdling. Charlie Sheen wants Obama to re-open at least 2 and 1/2 investigations, because 9/11 was “an inside job.” I don’t know about 9/11, but Honduras is certainly looking like a “globalist” conspiracy. How else can you explain this “false flag” of self-inflicted wounds, pulverizing the country under cover of “restoring” us to “democracy”?

September 15 is Honduras Independence Day. Some independence, huh? But I guess we’re probably more independent than ever--the whole world hates us! Isolated and shamed like an abortion in the basement, like Jaycee Lee Dugard--before her rescue. Because of the “crisis,” the teachers and other unions declared the day a dead letter, but, you know what, they do that every year. Big celebrations are supposedly a boon to businesses--students dress up for parades, new band uniforms and outfits, candy and other goodies shared at school, big sales events at all the stores and malls, decorations and extravagance throughout--so to “punish” the oppressors, the unions try to shut the day down like the Grinch on Christmas. Such dryness is naturally doomed. Mindless or not, folks will celebrate, even in adversity.

At our school in Las Vegas, a compromise. No parades or marches, but a whole morning of dances, dramas, and diversions with a “cultural” theme celebrating our heritage. Elvis was helping with the sound and music, and at one point, when a cute couple of second-graders performed, he jumped on his cell phone to call me--I was in the back of the crowd. “Get some pictures of Dorisell!” I hurried closer to the edge of the grass and started snapping away, but I thought, That little girl is not Dorisell. Did I misunderstand, or Elvis doesn’t even know his own kid? I took at least 40 pictures of the little couple anyway, and they got a nice hand. It was not till after the whole morning was over and Flor the principal told all the students to report to their classrooms, where the teachers had little bags of candy for them, that I went to Profe Nancy’s second-grade, where Chemo is a classmate with Dorisell, and saw Dorisell, in little black boots and little gray pants, and a little boy’s shirt, and a big mustache in her hand, and it hit me. Dorisell was the boy! Dorisell was the BOY!! I felt like I’d just read the last page of the new Dan Brown novel. The rest of the day, I just kept telling people, Hey, did you see Dorisell in the presentations this morning? No? Yes, you did! She was the boy! Dorisell, even at 7, is such a pro. She just did her job, she wasn’t looking for any celebrity. I could not get her excited by her triumph, even when I “slideshowed” all 40 pictures on my laptop for her. Later, Dora explained that Profe Nancy had, of course, wanted one of the second-grade boys for the dance, but none of them could, or would, learn the steps--and we all looked at Chemo. “Who, me?” Now, Chemo does love to “move,” when he’s got his music going, and I would have loved to see him take this leap forward, but you have to congratulate Dorisell for her showMANship!

Dorisell’s big brother Elvis, Jr., danced, too, with the folk dancers, but I could recognize him all right. He is a boy and he danced a boy. Other kids performed various skits, including a take-off on “Laura,” a TV talk show like Jerry Springer. But, again, cross-dressing, with an eighth-grader, Jonathan, as Laura. Now, that is a brave 14-year-old!

But the most moving performance was one not intended for applause at all, and I did not get a photo of it, either. Tomas Cruz, a young teacher from the very poor village of Pueblo Nuevo, who has appeared in these chronicles before when he got his a job at age 18 teaching first-graders, sang the National Anthem in Tulupan, an indigenous language. It was moving not only because of its strange and exotic sounds but even more so because of its unspoken pleading for inclusion of a forgotten people, the Tulupan Indians, lost and ignored in the mountains ever since their land became our land, “la patria.”

So September 15 was big, but I was even more excited about 09-09-09, not because I play the lottery, but because it was Chemo’s birthday. He picked out new clothes at Juanita’s store, including new shoes. It’s not just a birthday present, it’s practically a necessity. Chemo has a hard time getting dressed sometimes because he gives his clothes away. He gave pants and a couple shirts to his brother Marquitos when we visited there in July. He’ll measure a kid with a pair of his shorts and say, “These’ll fit you.” He’ll hold up a pair of not-so-old soccer shoes and give me a questioning look and point to the kid beside him. I’ll nod Yes. What am I supposed to say? I think of Fr. Mychal Judge, the first official casualty of 9/11, who apparently never got all the way home with the clothes he left the house in, because he’d’ve given something away to the poor. I long to be that simple, and I guess I’m glad that Chemo already is.

For Chemo’s big day we had a huge Carolina cake and a party on the roof. It was sort of hot, so we crowded into what shade there was. But there were no complaints, especially when Chemo cranked up some new music I had just downloaded for him. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention we got up at 5:00 in the morning to play “Las Mananitas,” the traditional birthday serenade. I played it as loud as I dared at that hour, but Chemo would not wake up. He just rolled over, even after four repeats, and he didn’t remember a thing the rest of the day. Imagine! Sleeping like that! (Like father, like son, you’re probably thinking....)

Chemo turned 15. That’s remarkable. I can’t help thinking back to last year, when he celebrated his 14th birthday in Tegucigalpa just before his open-heart operation. We spent that September 9th scrambling for blood donors, the longest day of my life, till September 12, that is, the actual day of his operation. A century passed between 2:00 and 6:00 p.m. as I waited for him to live or die, under the knife. Well, he lived, didn’t he? And a year later his gaping scar is no more than a chalk line on his chest. Maybe the wound festering in Honduras can heal as surely. You prayed and carried Chemo into life, can you still remember us, till justice come? And by the way, I haven’t seen Chemo’s new birthday shirt since his birthday. Not on Chemo anyway.....

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2009

2009-08-31T22:56:00.001-05:00

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2009

Masters of War

Honduras continues in its political Limbo, neither fish nor fowl, but still foul enough in the high noses of the “world community” that now says they won’t recognize our elections in November--our best hope for an end to the crisis--if ousted president Mel Zelaya is not first returned to power. Oh thank you, thank you, Masters, may I have another? Hey, if you accepted the 2000 election of George Bush, you can darn well accept ours!

This whole mess may be the fault of the U.S., after all. Not, as Hugh Chavez thinks, because the U.S. encouraged the coup, but because the U.S. failed to discourage Mel. Remember the first Gulf War, when Saddam Hussein barged into Kuwait after the U.S. ambassador raised no objections to his ambitions? Similarly here, the U.S. ambassador, Hugo Llorens, kept lauding Mel for his leadership and never raised objections to Mel’s “Cuarta Urna,” his ambition for unconstitutional re-election. Perhaps if Llorens had sat Mel down and told him point blank, “Lookit, Mel baby, get off this kick, ‘cause if there’s a coup, don’t come crying to us to put you back in!” Mel might have backed down and we’d just be coasting along in the normal greased grooves of common corruption as always till a new president takes the wheel next January. Indeed, the presidential campaign “officially” kicked off today, with the two major candidates, Elvin Santos for the Liberals and Pepe Lobo for the Nationals, all smiles and promises--education, employment, security--without so much as a glance at embargoes, isolation, ruin, and death. Just a normal campaign.

So Obama is still dealing with this hornets nest. Fortunately, he has not gone so far as to declare our elections null and void even before they happen. But the State Department is doing something just as cheap, behaving like a “death panel” and suspending entry visas for ANYONE from Honduras. So Hondurans themselves are null and void. That’s not diplomacy, that’s bullying. That’s the kind of small thinking that got us into this mess; that’s the kind of thinking that defines Obama down, from hope and change to mope and spare change. He’s bigger than that. Maybe as a tribute to Senator Kennedy, we might declare an amnesty on such arrogance. Chemo just asked me when we’re going to America. Never, my son....

Honduras is so little. We can’t trade oil for “compassion” like the Lockerbie bomber from Libya. We can’t win Miss Universe. We probably can’t get into the World Cup. We have nothing to offer, to entice the world to soften its hard line. Oh, we make your clothes (I just noticed “Made in Honduras” in my Dickies tee-shirt!), and you eat our bananas and maybe our melons, and there are a million Hondurans in the U.S., poaching your eggs, flipping your burgers, nannying your babies, planting your daffodils, building your houses, but it’s just a sliver of the current madness for “globalization,” sometimes pronounced “Goldman-Sachs.”

The way things are going, I have half a mind to jump into a march for Mel myself, just to get this over with, but I’m scared I might lose the other half of my mind if I get my head beaten in. A Human Rights group (CIDH) came to look into alleged abuses by the police of protesters demanding Mel’s return. And they found plenty. But not surprisingly. These are the same police beating the same protesters sicced on them by Mel in the past four years and by every president before him. There is one new little twist; Micheletti, the de facto president, has brought Billy Joya out of mothballs, a real gem from the 1980s who specialized in “disappearing” activists for then-president Roberto Suazo Cordova, to coordinate the counter-insurgency. Violence! Violence! The protesters are blamed for burning down a Popeye’s and setting a bus on fire, cooking up Molotov cocktails in the chem labs of the university. And for attacking Red Cross ambulances! The “Melistas” deny any role in the violence, but did assert that the police were using the ambulances to supply the police with more tear-gas bombs and other anti-riot gear. Someone lobbed 5 Molotov cocktails at the El Heraldo newspaper offices, viewed as “golpista,” that is, serving the interests of the coup government, but strangely almost no damage was done, so that looks like an inside job, yes? On the other hand, hooligans have killed more fans at our soccer games in the past two months than any police have killed on the streets. Mel himself is urging disruption of the voting in November--another crime against the state! says the “interim” government of Roberto Micheletti. It’s crazy, like the man who killed his parents throwing himself on the mercy of the court--as an orphan.

At a meeting at the school in Las Vegas to bring parents up to date on teachers’ plans for the rest of the school year, a rather hyperbolic organizer from Victoria screamed at us for 40 minutes, blaming all the evils of the world on Micheletti, the de facto president, and his minions. I had to appreciate more what Paulino, a man with a longer memory, said. Paulino never got beyond the third grade; he’ll never be a “Hot Search” on Yahoo, but he’s been protesting all his life; he’s been beaten and jailed by every president Honduras has had since it began electing them “constitutionally” in 1982, just for siding with the poor. He is the most humble man, the very model of non-violence, soft-spoken, a voice choked a little with tears. He really couldn’t bring himself to second the rhetoric of self-righteousness. He just said, “We have to keep with the struggle, for the poor, till justice come.” The restoration of Mel and the “restoration” of justice are two very different things. How can you “restore” something that Honduras has never known?

So how can I thank YOU for listening? I just drop these missives into a deep well, and I wait for the splash. And then the bucket suddenly comes up and it’s Amy Gavel, a Parkway North grad, who wrote to say she’s organizing her own students (9th - 12th graders) at Mt. Zion Temple in St. Paul, MN, to send help, specifically for Rosa, Chemo’s sister, who needs open-heart surgery, too. Amy’s students are already covering “Rosa bat Rufina” with misherebach blessings and prayers.

Talk about a long memory! Christians can never catch up on Judaism’s eons of out-reach. I just heard Bill Maher try to set the record straight. “Americans are so dumb! A recent Gallup Poll found that about half of us do not know that Judaism is older than Christianity. So there are some people with a book in their house that says, ‘The Old Testament’ and ‘The New Testament,’ and they can’t figure out which came first.”

But Amy is not the only fresh water we’re getting. So many are helping. Indeed, any of you who regard us with good wishes and interest have our heart in your hands. Look at the way Jeanette Sipp-White, a Spanish teacher at Parkway South High, phrased it: “Know that we are all thinking of you and keeping you and our Honduran brothers and sisters in our prayers.” Our brothers, our sisters. Maybe we’re not so little after all.

Few prayers can improve on the simple “steps” of Alcoholics Anonymous. Last time I went to the Wednesday meeting that the men invite me to each week, Raul says, “Did you bring the literature?” I give a little reflection on a Scripture reading, but that didn’t seem to be what he meant. Turns out he was inviting me to open the meeting! This means reciting the Twelve Steps and the Twelve Traditions of AA. I do have copies, but I used their well-worn versions, reading them like a Book of Psalms, and I closed the meeting, too. I felt so privileged for this special confidence. Some day even Bill Maher, an ardent atheist who cannot conceive of any “higher power,” may find a testament there.

Speaking of oracles, I was pretty scared at the prospect of Chemo’s latest report card. When we do homework, subtraction, for example, there might 6 problems out of 15 that involve 10 - 6 or something equally basic; he has to count his fingers every time. But his teacher Nancy is a pearl, and she gave him high 80s and 90s. There is at least one more “quarter” to go in his quest to pass second grade. I guess the bubble will burst some day. There are a lot of folks around here who dropped out after second grade. For some kids, third grade is like Advanced Placement.

Meanwhile, Chepito and Pablito, incredibly, are still passing fourth grade. Their grades would make lovely sleeping weather, 60s and low 70s, but leave their ultimate fate very much in doubt. Actually, their teacher Abener recently asked to “borrow” 500 Lempiras from me. I loaned him the money happily, you know, sort of an insurance policy for the Bandidos. So I kinda think he’s returning the favor....

I went to Tegucigalpa August 28 for Elio Flores’ birthday party. It was a wonderful celebration! It was the first time I had seen the whole family together since Mema’s birthday party back in January, just after she and Elio had started receiving death threats if they didn’t pay “protection” money. That was an oppressive evening. But this was sheer joy, everyone dancing, eating, laughing, and singing. I shamelessly took advantage of the situation to hit up folks for blood donors for Chemo’s sister Rosa--we have to deposit at least 5 pints of blood before her operation. And of course they responded as I knew they would. “Where do I sign up?”

Another good sign is the restoration of the old church on the hill. It finally got a “polish” and it once again is like a lighthouse to the whole community. I had the kids haul the bags of cement, the bags of cal, the sand, the water, up the steep hill, where Dora’s brother Oscar did the “plastering.” I tried to make it worth their while, with fried chicken lunches at the merendero. A little tornado or something had torn the roof off and big chunks of the walls over two years ago, leaving only the hundred-year-old facade. So we rebuilt the walls with concrete blocks, and that somehow took forever, while a new roof blew off again and was replaced with a yet stronger one. I “contracted” Oscar for the final touches, but he had to plant his corn--and his beans and help with his friends’ corn and beans--so the delays kept piling up. Now some folks are starting to harvest their corn! But it’s done. Well, we think we will put a little sidewalk around it to finish it off, and Dora thinks the Legion of Mary should raise the funds to paint it. I like its “antique” whiteness, but it might end up a lovely Marian blue....

Chemo’s soccer team is now official, a “Liga de Menores,” or kids’ league. And when I say official, I mean it. They’ve got more staff than the Cardinals. Threre’s a president, a vice-president, a treasurer, a bunch of assistants I don’t even know what they do--and a Discipline Committee, the parents’ favorite feature. The team’s name is Mario Landa, for a retired teacher and major sponsor. I’m not sure how the cheers are supposed to go.... Gimme an M! They invited a professional coach from Tegucigalpa to come and evaluate the kids and give his advice. At a meeting with parents, I asked what he considered the major criteria for participation. He underscored the support of the parents. Good enough, but I was fishing for where he came down on the choices, win-at-all-costs or play-every-kid-every-game, which is Chemo’s best hope.

You know, I’m “pro-life,” but I draw the line at roaches, even unborn roaches. The other night, I almost fainted when I saw three fat roaches crawling around on the glass door of my microwave, like they were on TV or something. I grabbed the Raid and, my heart pounding, I flipped open the door. Nothing. Where were they? I closed the door--O my God! They were INSIDE the door , between the two glass panels that form the door, an arrangement I’d never noticed before. Roach under glass. But that’s not all. A snow-white roach was wriggling out of its black husk, like some scene cut from the latest Narnia movie. Was this the end? Should I hide in the basement and wait for the fire and brimstone? My hands trembling, I examined the door as best I could, and found some openings at the hinges where presumably some roach looking for a tanning bed could crawl in. I thought, I’ll toast them! So I set a cup of water inside (caution, caution) and cranked up the machine. No effect. Where’s Billy Joya when you need him? But that’s the whole point of the door, of course--it doesn’t heat up. So I sprayed, and sprayed, aiming right into the little holes, tossing caution to the wind in case I might start a fire. (I guess I could have unplugged it....) And then at last they started to scramble and I smashed them into wet spots as they found their way out, including the white one, the Queen? But the husk remains stuck between the glass, a museum piece to sort of turn your stomach every time you see it. I’d call it a metaphor for Honduras, but I’m not sure if it’s not the other way around.

With these long stretches in Las Vegas--avoiding travel to avoid the crowds--I’ve been fixing spaghetti every night, and the kids never tire of it. And I do love to see everyone eating. For me, the key is serving it piping hot. Delicious! I would try other menus, but spaghetti is the easiest, quickest, cheapest dish to feed the hordes, as many as 15 kids a night, as well as Don Jose, who comes with his three boys. My own appetite, however, may be reaching its limits.

But I WILL change the menu if peace comes to Honduras. I’ll throw such a party! Meanwhile, wish us well, keep in touch, and enjoy the sweet corn, as we are here, the reason butter and salt were invented. And that’s what I call poetry!

Love, Miguel