ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2016

ESTA ES SU CASA—MARCH 2016

BACK TO SCHOOL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All my love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2016

ESTA ES SU CASA—FEBRUARY 2016

LEAPING YEAR

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2016

ESTA ES SU CASA—JANUARY 2016

CRUCIBLE

The glory of Honduras-Progreso’s national championship, the sacred joy of two weddings, and the thrill of Christmas vacation, all were plunged into darkness on Sunday, December 20, with the fatal crash of a bus loaded to standing-room only just minutes from its destination in Las Vegas. The brakes failed on a steep, twisting descent to Victoria, but passengers didn’t even realize there was a problem till it hit with such blunt force that every seat was ripped from the floor and sent airborne, slicing through the bus like a wood chipper, throwing victims out of broken windows, the front of the bus like some monster vomiting debris and passengers. Three dead at the scene, including one decapitated. Another died in hospital, with two or three more lives hanging in the balance.

Chemo and I might have been on that bus, if we had not decided to stay an extra day in El Progreso to celebrate with Nangui’s family the soccer championship. I had attended the wedding of Manuel Figueroa and Gloria, along with his 11 brothers and sisters and their spouses and kids, and his mother Erlinda, the very same Erlinda I was begging your help for some months ago, Erlinda, the widow of Guillermo, who died so tragically of a chemo overdose a couple years ago. Yes, and the mother of Maricela, the mother of six with her husband Juan Blas, including my little namesake Miguel Angel, and Marite, whose sixth birthday pictures are featured in this CASA.

In the accident, Erlinda got a horrid black eye and other strains and bruises; Maricela broke a rib and got enough cuts on her face and hands for twenty stitches; Juan Blas got a walloping bruise on his right leg, which only FEELS like it’s broken; Miguel Angel somehow escaped without a scratch; Marite broke her collarbone and is hefting a big plaster cast. Michelle, 16, a cousin, who often plays Jesus in our Sunday dramatizations of the gospel, just a lovely girl, had the whole back of her right arm sliced open to the bone. Another little niece, Fernanda, has two lines of stitches like barbed wire across her whole forehead.

One death that affected us all was Leydi, a neighbor of mine, a friend to everyone. The wife of Pastor Mauricio, whose little church serves a variety of good folks, she had a simple, some might say plain, face, but it just glowed. When I was president of the parents club in 2013, during Chemo’s first attempt at seventh grade, she was not an actual member of the Junta Directiva, but she helped us with every project all year. I looked in vain just now for a nice photo of her in my archives—nothing, she’s always in the background! I had to borrow a couple from her cousins posting on Facebook. Her little son Quique and his cousin Jesse often come by my house selling bags of the most delicious cookies you ever had, made by Leydi”s mother Alma, who is fighting for her life, after a literal scourging in the havoc of the accident. You see, this family, like Erlinda’s, was returning from a wedding, too. The bus, chartered to accommodate all the folks heading to Las Vegas, including a couple dozen workers getting their Christmas break from sweatshops in Choloma, a suburb of San Pedro, apparently was not subject to inspections the way the public buses are; and the driver, who by all reports has gone insane, is in jail, plagued with nightmares I guess of a route he had never driven before.

In comparison it’s nothing, but at the moment, I thought my experience at the Big Game was the end of my life. As I said, I went to the wedding of Manuel and Gloria, while Chemo went early to the stadium, along with Nangui’s family. By the time I got there, about 6:30 p.m., the gates were closed, with 400-500 ticket holders still clamoring to get in. This had riot written all over it, so I hung back, especially when I saw the police raising their weapons. I figured they had tear gas, too.

But the crowd started pushing, and battering the biggest gate, solid steel, the size of a barn door—and suddenly it twisted and shook and gave way and fell like a stricken dinosaur. Then they really pushed. I tripped and fell, hard, losing my glasses, but something strange happened. A circle opened around me as they helped me to my feet, and somebody returned my glasses to me. In another moment, I was pressed so hard against the metal frame of the fallen gate that I thought my back would snap in two, and I lost my phone; somebody pulled me through, and somebody else returned my phone. Once inside, I thought I’d be ducking bullets, and I clung to some little trees there; a man with a face so sweet I thought he was an angel came to me and held me and asked me if I was all right, “We’ll get you a seat, Miguel.” I looked and looked and finally recognized Alexander Lopez, the MAYOR of El Progreso, a man I know through our mutual friend Wilfredo Mencia. You know, maybe he said, we’ll get you an ambulance, but anyway I was restored, and now brave enough to do some pushing of my own, gently, gently, excusing myself a thousand times, till I made my way to where Chemo and Nangui’s family could see me from the stands.

I stayed down by the fence, and swore I would not move no matter how hard it rained. Well, I moved at least five times, to shelter under the stairs. Motagua, a 13-time national champion, a legend, a tradition, and a cheater (they had their own version of deflate-gate that got their coach suspended) scored first. But Honduras-Progreso kept its cool and evened the score before the half ended, by which time both teams were so covered with mud, it was a guess who was who.

Controversy in the second half, as the referee waved off a goal by Motagua for being off-sides. Well, you know, every champion needs a little luck! (In the game the week before, at Motagua’s stadium in Tegucigalpa, the “homer” referee red-carded a Honduras-Progreso player on some made-up infraction right after he scored the first goal; but even shorthanded, Honduras-Progreso managed a 3-3 tie against the Big Boys.) And when Nangui came into the game ‘long about minute 65, the whole stadium erupted in wild cheers. I swear, even the Motagua fans were joining in!

Ninety minutes, and thirty more of overtime, till it came down to penalty kicks. At first, Honduras-Progreso looked completely lost; they were just standing around chatting or something, while Motagua was busy as bees running and pointing and pretend kicking. Turns out, our coach had a hunch the title would be decided by “penales,” so they’d been practicing for over a week, winnowing out any weak links, till the crew of five was composed strictly of players who had not missed a shot. Ready when you are, Motagua! Of course, I was nervous as hell, but when the first Motagua player sent the ball totally over the net, I let myself believe—a bit. When the second Motagua kick also sailed over the net, I began to think of what I would say to Nangui. Meanwhile, Honduras-Progeso made every one of their shots. As Homer Simpson would say, No problemo!

So we won! Glory, rapture! And as huge as the crowd was, 7000 fans crammed in a stadium built for no more than 3500, there was no undue celebrating, turning cars over, throwing things, setting fires (another thing Motagua had been suspended for a time or two), much less any fights (Motagua’s biggest suspension came when their fans actually beat a rival fan to death!). So, really, the whole “futbol” world—at least the Honduran portion of it—agreed: Honduras-Progreso was a worthy champion, in only its third season of operation. It was like a sandlot bunch of kids taking down the New York Yankees, David v. Goliath. “Go crazy, folks, go crazy!”

Then the bus accident, so I barely posted on FACEBOOK about the game at all. And I felt so helpless that I was not with the mourners and the injured in Las Vegas. Actually, there was not much I could have done; Dora called me to ask if Leydi’s family could borrow my chairs for the wake; and the injured were not home themselves, with hospital stays and such. A time for weeping.

I really think the best news of this CASA is Chemo’s First Holy Communion. For me, it marked not just the season but the whole year with grace. Leila had prepared him so lovingly all year long, with his little class consisting of nieces Cecilia (“Chila”) and Reina, and a very shy boy named Emerson, who came down from Guachipilin, an hour’s hike, for their weekly lessons. We celebrated with a special “triple” cake from Carlota, since it was also Chila’s birthday. I kept reminding Chemo and the girls, don’t forget about your second First Communion and your third First Communion and so on. Chemo’s already up to his Seventh Holy Communion, including a 6:30 a.m. Mass at the Cathedral in Tegucigalpa. That early rising was a miracle for Chemo right there!

We went to Tegucigalpa for Lily’s graduation. The first in her family ever to attain a university degree, she graduated from La Pedagogica, the largest teacher school in the country, and Magna Cum Laude at that, in a class of over 500 graduates. The whole family went, her parents Elvis and Dora, and the kids Dorita and Doricel; her other siblings Neysey and Elvis Jr. were already there, also “universitarios.” A timely Christmas gift from a dear friend in the States helped with all the travel, and also a big celebration afterward of Chinese food—take-out, of course!                                  

All the best for the New Year! Keep us in mind, as we pick up the pieces, here in Las Vegas and there in the Flood Plain.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—DECEMBER 2015

GOT KIDS?

Do you have any kids? And do you have any money? ‘Cause you can’t have both! Chemo needed new glasses—again! (The cheap pair we got on sale broke already.) He needed a new phone. (The kid who stole it had spent the night; he grabbed the phone before Chemo woke up; we chased him in two moto-taxis all the way to Victoria, where the police had already been alerted, but he got away, so the six of us ate fried chicken at PolloLandia). He needed new shoes. (He’s harder on keds than a labrador puppy.) He needed new pants and a new shirt—for his FIRST COMMUNION! (Coming up this Sunday!) And, as if all that weren’t enough—he still EATS!

“Maria Bonita”—I thought it was a charming nickname (‘Pretty Mary’) when I first heard it years ago, till Dora sheepishly admitted it was a diss, because Maria was so ugly! At that point, I decided to be her Avedon, and take as Vogue-ish a portrait as possible. She was so poor, but so noble, she never shrank from the public eye, even if folks might have been laughing at her. Then, about a month ago, word spread that she was sick; at 94, she would not get well. But none of us counted on the long road she had to travel. Every day, we were sure it was her last. As she shrank to the size of a raisin, I kept trying to understand why she had to suffer so. But as weak as she was, she reached out to anyone who visited and pulled them close, her dimming eyes brightening. A group would gather every night at the house. I stopped by early on her last day; she was taking short, quick breaths, the sign the end was near. Indeed, she soon just stopped, and her daughter started to weep as she tested her pulse and pressed her ear to her chest. All quiet. I know I sound like someone with a tin-foil hat, but I finally decided that she lingered so long so that WE would get stronger. She was Catholic, but her family had evolved to a pentecostal sect that thinks you do not pray for the dead. So, in effect, she had her Novenario BEFORE her death. Her “real” name: Maria de Jesus. Pretty, after all.

Chemo and I went to Nangui’s final regular game, which the team managed to tie up 1-1 in the last minute with a penalty kick. Back at the house, we celebrated Nangui’s little sister Yulissa’s birthday with the usual menu from Pizza Hut and Nani’s Bakery. Chemo danced and danced. As a few of the family walked us back to the hotel about 1:00 in the morning, we heard others shouting after us, “Look out, there’s a guy on a bike going to rob you!” Wouldn’t that have been perfect! It will probably happen some day, but whoever it was may have been intimidated by the two big house dogs that follow the family wherever they go.

Meanwhile, in his team’s final game, Chemo scored a goal, against his own nephew Joel! Not that I would doubt Chemo’s skill, you know, but I was not totally ready with the camera and I got only a very impressionistic image of the event. Chemo was so excited, he turned an Ozzie Smith type somersault—I didn’t get that either!

Fermin and Maria didn’t seem that excited to see me, when I stopped by Morazan before returning to Las Vegas. Well, they were both exhausted from the end of the school year, final exams, final grades, final farewell parties. So I just lay low, till Fermin perked up after a couple days: “Miguel, when are we going to the Lake again?” By which he meant Lake Yojoa, the largest fresh-water lake in Central America, where a line of a hundred little restaurants all feature fried fish to die for. Maria grasped Fermin’s hand: “Tomorrow?” That was the “sign” I was waiting for! The next day, everybody managed to get out of school a little early; Fermin’s car was in pretty good shape for the hour-and-a-half ride; and by 1:00 p.m. we were all hunched over plates of fried fish at Gabriela’s, not a random choice at all, it turns out. “She never raises her prices,” said Fermin, which I appreciated since I had made it clear this was my treat. And Gabriela herself was there, a bit elderly now but so proud of her establishment.

Juan Carlos had a birthday. I long ago managed to quit him of the nickname “El Mudo” (Deaf-Mute), but some folks were still a little unsure who I was talking about when I invited them to the party, and virtually no one could guess his age—41. They always think of him as a child. And indeed, as one friend said on FACEBOOK, he’s an adult with a child’s heart.

Maricela celebrated the same birthday—41—a few days later. She not only has one child’s heart, she’s got seven! That is, Mariela, Milena, Juan Jose, Helen, Felipe, Miguel Angel, and Mariana Teresa, called Marite. It’s Marite, who just turned 6, who’s keeping Maricela busiest lately; the child has monthly appointments in Tegucigalpa for a kidney problem, and most recently needed plastic surgery, of all things, for some growth on the back of her head!

Chemo’s cousin Keyla turned 5, and we celebrated with toys donated by Wydown Junior High students. Even Grandma Natalia got a coloring book!

Quelin Archaga’s father Justo came to Las Vegas to deliver personally an invitation to her ninth-grade graduation in El Zapote. Back in 2004, when Christy Tharenos was visiting, she befriended Quelin and has kept in touch ever since. So I would be Christy’s representative! Quelin, everyone assumed, was Number One in her little class of 6, but another girl beat her by one-tenth of a point! Now, really, are teachers so sure of themselves that they can measure things that close? I always tried to round UP, on the assumption that my own evaluation was faulty. (Kids did seem to get better grades if the Cardinals were winning when I was reading essays at Busch Stadium!) But it was a sweet ceremony nevertheless, and Quelin wants to be a teacher—a math teacher—if the family can scrape up enough money to finance the next phase of her education.

But I guess my favorite occasion last month was the wedding of Elio and Mema’s niece Cecilia (“Cesi”). She lived with them in Tegucigalpa from high school all the way till her graduation as an architect from the Catholic University, so I had watched her grow up. She made a beautiful, may I say, beatific, bride.

Well, I’ve got to get my Christmas tree up, so let me just wish you all the happiest of holidays, and I’ll see you in 2016!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—NOVEMBER 2015

JUST IN TIME

The never-ending birthday. As soon as I got back to Honduras, Elio and Mema—they picked me up at the airport!—took me out for a birthday lunch at Ni-Fu Ni-Far, a big fat restaurant specializing in beef from Argentina. Believe me, I was grateful, and I would have made a pig of myself under normal conditions, but I was still so stuffed from a month in St. Louis, I did my best just to save face. “I’ve got a spare tire,” I said, bouncing my bulging tummy. “That’s a tractor tire!” exclaimed Mema. Really, there was feast enough just being with them. Mema is due to get the cast off her broken foot sometime soon, though even if the bones are setting, lots of therapy is still due. 

The topic of conversation was Jaime Rosenthal, a perennial try-out for President, never achieving the nomination but forever a mainstay in Liberal politics and Honduran society with the dozens of businesses he owns (including Banco Continental) and the newspaper he ran (El Tiempo, which somehow named him “Man of the Year” almost every year!). Now in his 80s, his life is ending in disgrace, thanks to a son and nephew who have been laundering drug money through his bank for more than a decade. Without Jaime’s knowledge?? The United States is bringing the charges and calling for the extraditions, but the government of Honduras, firmly in the hands of the National (conservative) party, is taking advantage of the situation to foreclose every single Rosenthal asset, including the bank (300,000 customers left holding the bag) and the newspaper, which over the years published columns written and ghost-written by Jesuits with no other opportunity for a national voice. Weirdest of all, the Rosenthal Zoo, with 9000 alligators, languishes untended. 

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/10/08/world/americas/us-indicts-members-of-powerful-honduran-family.html?smprod=nytcore-ipad&smid=nytcore-ipad-share

As Elio and Mema declared, isn’t a man innocent till proven guilty? As personal acquaintances, they feel for Jaime’s plight. But this news comes sandwiched between one mayor after another taking perp walks for running drugs and hiring assassins. The mayor of Sulaco, just a few miles from where I live, ran a “banda” that rubbed out rivals, recently found in shallow graves, as many as 60 people, including the son of a teacher that works with Fermin in Morazan. In that case, the young man was not fast enough with the wanted information about some drug peddler he only knew by name. 

Still in Tegus, I took Lily, Neysey, and Tito—Elvis and Dora’s kids all studying at the University, plus another friend Bayron, to lunch at Pizza Hut. This has to rank as one of my greatest “investments,” helping this family to accomplish something unheard of in Las Vegas, 3 kids at once in the University! 

Then I returned to Las Vegas, just in time to celebrate a couple birthdays before I zoomed off to Progreso. First, Chemo’s niece Albita, more formally known as “Suyapa,” turning 4, who I presented with the Dora the Explorer backpack she asked for, courtesy of Jane Lindberg, who plucked it off amazon.com the moment I mentioned it in St. Louis. Then, Chemo’s cousin Lindolfito, turning 7, and to him I gave the toy cars that kids at Wydown Middle School had donated. 

 To Progreso, then, for a game with Nangui’s team Honduras-Progreso. They scored a goal early in the contest and held on for a 1-0 victory over Juticalpa. Honduras-Progreso has been in first place since day one, and they should finish there with just two games left in the regular season. 

But guess what? Chemo did NOT go with me! I didn’t know what to think; first, he calls me “papa,” as I reported in the last CASA, and now he says, “I better not go; I’ve got to go to my First Communion classes.” Are you kidding me? He’s finally taking the sacrament seriously. Suddenly, the kid’s a candidate for sainthood! 

I spent a few days then in Morazan, where I delivered the film Fermin had asked for (regular roll film, in those little canisters, still available at Walgreen’s!) and the Sleep-Eze he was eager to replenish. Maria was tending to some tiny kittens whose mother died the same day they were born. I was still sort of just winding down after the wall-to-wall visitations in St. Louis, but they surprised me with yet another birthday party! The whole family pitched in, and I couldn’t have been happier. 

Now that I’m back in Las Vegas, the lines are forming, and the needs are multiplying, starting with Maricela with three appointments in a row, two for little daughter Mariana Teresa in Tegucigalpa and one for herself in Progreso. Dora from Nueva Palmira is still not healed from her hernia operation, and Chemo’s half-brother Santos is passing blood. These and other dire straights gouge out the substance I thought I had built up in my “account.” But in a country whose corruption bleeds over the whole hemisphere, I take heart from a quotation I saw from Pope Francis: “How shall we define who is a ‘human being’? A blessing? Yes, a human being is a blessing; a human being blesses others.”

The living look for some helping hand, and the dead, as the sweet Book of Wisdom says, “are in the hands of God.” So I spent a lot of time in our cemetery on November 2, the Day of the Dead, more piously called the “Poor Souls.”  Folks had been chopping down weeds for a week in anticipation of the observance; then flowers, pine needles, ribbons, and other memorabilia would decorate our loved ones’ resting places. I usually sit by the grave of Miguel, and not only because it’s in the shade or because we share a name. He was a teen who died in 1991, struck by lightning in his corn field. Every year his mother arrives with another “corona” (crown) of flowers. The never-ending story, and each of us has one, blessings all around.

Peace,

Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--ST. LOUIS EDITION 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—ST. LOUIS EDITION 2015

ANY FAMILY…

On my birthday October 12, Chemo texted me from Honduras:

“muchusimas felicidades mi papa en su dia y gracias por darme su carino tan hermoso y q dios me le regale muchos anos en su vida, lo kiero mucho papa”

[“Congratulations, mi papa, on your day, and thank you for giving me such loving care; may God grant you many more years of life. I love you very much, papa.”]

It bent me to my knees, practically in tears! And this as I was finding my way to a table in Blueberry Hill where I was having lunch with my cousins. You see, it’s the first time Chemo called me “papa”! Twice!

I’ve never insisted or even expected him to call me Dad, since he witnessed the bloody death of his father Juan de la Cruz right in his own house. Chemo was only 5 at the time, years before I adopted him at age 13. So it’s been worth the wait!

On the other hand, a cynic would say it was Chemo’s most effective ploy to get the “tacos,” or soccer shoes, he’d been begging me for. And yes, I went straight from Blueberry Hill to I Dick’s Sporting Goods in West County Mall for the shoes! (Hedging my bets, however, I bought a pair on sale for $25, not exactly the $150 fancies Chemo specified.) But you know what, I don’t care even if I am being played—“Dad” or no “Dad,” it made me realize again how much I love him.

May I say, Pope Francis prepared me for Chemo’s birthday greetings. Teresa’s good friend and former student Kim, who now lives up east, invited us to Philadelphia for the final Mass, providing us with frequent-flyer plane tickets, the hospitality of her marvelous mother Donna, and her own inspired guidance as she led us on a 45-minute hike AGAINST the crowds, way to the other side of the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, where we found immediate access to a Security check point and walked right in. We got a spot just at the railing and waited till Pope Francis rode by; he seemed to spot Teresa’s little sign, “GRACIAS FRANCISCO.” Later we learned that thousands of folks on the other side where we started had waited six hours and never got in! If we can ever get a Pope FranCES, Kim has my vote!

The Pope’s theme was the Family, which he defined as a unity of love. So, “ANY family that welcomes children and teaches them little gestures of love and kindness, will be appreciated by us, no matter what their origin, make-up, or style.” I began to cry, to think of how many of my friends and loved ones have longed to hear such welcoming words from an “authority” figure, especially one who seeks to share the love of God. So my heart was already softened when Chemo finally called me “papá.”

“Gestures of love” were in abundance among family and friends during my visit to St. Louis. Teresa went above and beyond as always in hosting me, with our friend “Rams,” now 87, keeping pace. My sister Barb got me to her son Jason’s games at Gateway High School, where he is head football coach and athletic director. My niece Jen and her sweet daughters Jayme and Justyne seemed to get more excited every time I saw them. I went along with another niece Myia and her daughters Katie and Lara to the St. Louis Zoo, to the delight, may I say, of the animals, who seemed to enjoy such endearing children.

My birthday October 12 began at Spencer’s Grill, where George the cook presented me with a birthday pancake! Other breakfasts, lunches, dinners, visits here, there, and anywhere, filled my time to overflowing (and my belly like a spare tire!), still missing too many folks because of the strictures of sheer time. I’m sorry!

I talked in several schools, where I invited students to imagine that they, like thousands of others, had just arrived from Honduras. You’ll notice that in the United States, pets are often “a member of the family,” while Hondurans and other immigrants, who actually are human beings, are “aliens.” In the United States, marijuana is “harmless,” because users are ignorant of what it costs Honduras—“the murder capital of the world”—to keep the supply coming. In the United States, even a high-school football game has an ambulance standing by, while in Honduras “health care” is often a death sentence. In the United States, kids express themselves with colorful and stylish clothes, clothes often “Made in Honduras” in sweatshops that pay a dollar an hour to human robots. But I also try to encourage these citizens of the future to, someday when they can, make a difference: for example, a “favorable wage,” as the Universal Declaration of Human Rights says, “worthy of human dignity”; or sharing their healing mastery as a surgeon or nurse with the poor; treating everyone like family.

That’s the negatives. The positives—the reason for hope!—include Chemo, of course, whose life was saved by “Helping Hands for Honduras”; thanks to his open-heart surgery in 2008, Chemo just reached his 21st birthday, complete with rooftop party at our house. And Nangui, rising from dirt poverty to become a star of the first-place soccer team Honduras-Progreso. At one middle-school, we called Nangui’s grandma Tina (with my cell phone on ‘spkr’) on her birthday to sing “Feliz cumpleanos”! And my neighbors Elvis and Dora, whose sacrifice and dedication have gotten their children Lily, Neysey, and Tito all the way to the National University. And Fermin and Maria’s children the same. And Elio and Mema, the same.

Examples multiply, more than enough to keep me making my life there.

I mean, here. I’m “home” again in Honduras. I already miss you terribly.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA—SEPTEMBER 2015

MEET ME IN ST. LOUIS: SEP 17 - OCT 19
Phone: 314-210-5303

If I was embarrassed to ask you for money for Erlinda, I’m even more embarrassed to tell you the follow-up. I told you the situation was urgent, that her operation was due very soon, and folks responded and cash came in. But when Erlinda went to San Pedro Sula to check in before the surgery, they told her, “Ma’am, you’re not even on the list.” They “re-scheduled” her for 2016! I’m afraid this is typical, postponing treatment till the patient finally just gives up—or dies.

I am so grateful to you, and Erlinda even more so of course! We got about $1600 from about 20 donors, which is wonderful, and your prayers mean even more to me because I get so discouraged sometimes, and your Spirit gives me hope. Erlinda put the money in the bank, where at least it can earn a little interest, for the time being. But that was not the original idea, so I feel like I plucked your heart-strings under false pretenses, and I’m sorry. From now on, I’ve gotta work with what I’ve got, no more of these “targeted” appeals!

Daisy finally had her baby! a full month after her husband Jovany was so brutally murdered on the original due date. That terrible day, we were sure the baby would be lost, as distraught and stressed as Daisy was. Remember, it was Erlinda who nursed her through the crisis, calming her and caressing her as no one else could, and I guess the little boy just needed some more time, too! Last-minute complications necessitated a cesarean delivery, but otherwise the delay does not seem to have harmed mother or child. She named him “Dixi” for his dad, Dixi Jovany.

Even a death can be a consolation when there’s time to prepare and say good-bye. My neighbor Mina reached her 90th birthday still greeting every visitor with a hug, and a kiss on the mouth! When she finally began to succumb to her age, she took to bed, so weak she could barely move, but she was still calling for family and friends by name to come get their hug and kiss. The night she died, we took my extra plastic chairs over to the house for the wake. Chemo and I were going to Progreso the next day on the 5:00 a.m. bus, but when Blanca, Nora, and Bebeto arrived to offer music as their prayer, I stayed all night. They went through practically the whole church songbook, songs Mina loved—and I’ve loved!—all these years. Actually, I did doze off and on, and when I was going to request one of my favorites, I thought, What if they’ve already sung it?

We went to Progreso for one of Nangui’s games, and his twins’ first birthday. Now, Nangui could not play in this particular game because of two totally unjustified yellow cards in the previous game, but he did not just sit on the bench. He sold baleadas at his family’s stand inside the stadium. It didn’t take long for reporters to notice, and they started filming. Now that HONDURAS-PROGRESO is winning again, they are the darling of the media, with at least weekly features, usually Nangui right in the middle of it all. And then I open up La Prensa and a two-page ad for Banco del Occidente, one of Honduras-Progreso’s chief sponsors, has Nangui smack in the middle! “We make the best even better!”

Honduras-Progreso was leading the whole game 1-0 till the very last minute—in fact, AFTER the last minute, minute 94 in down time—when a Honduras-Progreso defender deflected the ball into his own goal. Ouch!

But that did not dampen the next day’s festivities, little Ivan and Camila’s First Birthday party. And Nangui and Martha went all out—party favors, goodie bags, Mickey and Minnie caps, stickers, 2 pinatas, 2 big cakes, all kinds of snacks, 3 kinds of food, and special guests, Nangui’s teammates like Angel Tejeda, top goal scorer in the League, with their own kids. And did I mention there was a big, colorful tent, and tables decorated like Disneyland?

Someone might say, and I have to admit the thought crossed my mind, this is a little excessive, especially considering the tiny guests of honor have no idea what it’s all for. But Nangui was himself a year old at one time, in 1986, and he never got a party. His mother Santa was 23 at the time, according to my calculations, and she must have been 14 in 1977 when I first met the family, with her mother Argentina holding the whole family together making about 500 tortillas a day on consignment for restaurants around town, a family so poor they couldn’t even give Julio a proper funeral when he was killed at 18 in 1990, or his younger brother Joel later, jammed into the same grave. They never had a real birthday party in the 38 years I’ve known them, until now. Oh, I’ve been “doing” parties for them with the Pizza Hut or the Chinese and the cake and the soda, sure, but it’s not the same. Now Nangui’s got some money as a professional soccer star, and his bright fame has helped double or triple Martha’s baleada business, so IT’S CELEBRATION TIME, COME ON!

Then we went to Morazan for Fermin’s birthday. His mother Antonia wanted to give him a special party, but it was hard for Fermin to celebrate since his car had just broken down for the umpteenth time, and it looked like it was the end. Years ago, he told me had three dreams: own a house, own a car, and get his wife Maria as much education as he achieved. Well, Fermin and Maria have a house, they both have Master’s, and at least Maria still has a car, which breaks down pretty regularly, too.

We returned the next week for my namesake Miguel’s 13th birthday; it was the surprise of my life when Fermin called me 13 years ago. First of all, the birth was very complicated, touch and go, Maria and the baby were both on the knife-edge of life and death. “He’s Miguel, Miguel.” I was so confused, I thought it was a coincidence! “For you!”

Speaking of confused, I was really nonplussed when three boys came to the door in Morazan with what looked like a passport. “Did you drop this?” Huh? I looked at it as if it were a moon rock or something. Actually, it was Chemo’s Honduran passport that we got for him when it looked as if they might send him to the States for his open-heart surgery. How in the world…? “We just figured it might be yours.” I still have no idea how they made the connection—Luilly, Giulany, and Jose Luis—but the more I thought about it, the more astounded, even scared, I was at our good luck. Seems it slipped out of the folder I keep with Chemo’s “papers,” including his heart diagnosis history in case of an emergency. I think I may have scared them a little as I went on and on with my thanks and praise. I gave each of them 100 Lempiras, which they refused at first till I convinced them to get something for their little brother or sister.

We went to Tegucigalpa for Elio’s birthday, which almost didn’t happen. His wife Mema had just fallen and badly broke her left foot; they operated on her and put two pins in there that in the X-rays looked like rebar! An enormous cast up to her knee, and instructions not to stand on that foot for two months, absolutely! would have been enough to kill any joy, but Mema came up smiling and announced, “The party is ON!” No dancing for Mema, but everyone had a great time. As an aside, I loved the way Chemo helped Mema with every request.

While in Tegus, we stopped by to say hi to the Brigada, also in Tegus at the time. It’s such a beautiful mission, saving at least 2 lives daily for two weeks at a time, 4 times a year, including a blueish little boy that we saw and tried to encourage him and his anxious parents. “Chemo, show them your scar!” Ron and Alba were dead tired, and the brigada has become so well known that Ron said, “There are 800 kids in that room—I’m not kidding.” Kids waiting for evaluations; I hope he was kidding, because how in the world can they attend to so many children??

The big game—a showdown between the top two teams, HONDURAS-PROGRESO (HNP) and frequent national champion MOTAGUA—was over in about 25 minutes, as HNP scored 3 goals one after another right out of the gate. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t “go crazy!” every time. What I most appreciated was the good behavior of the huge crowd, piled in practically on top of one another. I soon had to stand, just to have the arm-room to snap a picture. Only a couple days before, two other teams in San Pedro had so many fights and commotion that the police fired tear gas into the crowd! The paper had a photo of a little boy sitting there in his team shirt, stunned and motionless, a white cloud swirling around him, like, “What is happening?” None of that in Progreso, best fans in baseball, I mean, soccer!

Next stop, ST. LOUIS!!! See you there!

Love, Miguel