ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2014

HAPPINESS IS THE TRUTH

See you in St. Louis, Sep. 17 to Oct. 15. I’ll be at Teresa Jorgen’s house (314-966-5782); my cell phone: 314-210-5303.

The horrors of Ferguson left me so helpless I had to acknowledge some truth in flame thrower Ann Coulter’s recent column excoriating “Christian narcissists” who fly off to the far reaches of the world “to serve man” when the need is so great right at home in the United States. I cried daily for Ferguson; the most I could do was climb the hill to the church every day to pray the Rosary and beg God’s mercy. So I’m in Honduras and would “challenge” you to pour buckets of cold cash on my “important” work, while my own home town is burning in shame, and broken hearts and bigotry push the very limits of FACEBOOK. I hope I can find a spot to pray and maybe lend a hand when I’m home.

Last month I had to “come clean” about Honduras, and I wonder if you are mad at me for not telling you the whole truth about how scary Honduras really is. It’s a reality I tried to ameliorate over the years with my hopeful stories of those precious and dear persons whose struggles against all odds have inspired me, folks that I wanted to be the face of Honduras for you, too. Well, the bitter truth is so overwhelming, I can hardly make a dent in it. Until Ferguson, the horror stories of Honduras were all over the news. I saw a reference in one article that these children of Central America, these “refugees” as they are being called, show the signs of PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, like soldiers barely surviving combat in war. I would never want to diminish what our veterans have suffered by diluting the term, yet that clicked for me. Could a whole generation be “disordered”? God help me, I see it even in myself! Sometimes I’m so confused, so directionless, so anxious, why doesn’t this work? why doesn’t this work out? so crippled by fear, so stressed, I guess I have to say, that I can’t move. Chemo, of course, is the touchstone of my life and my worry. I can’t help imagining that he will die in this mess here--he’s already had at least two life-threatening episodes with illness, as well as the threats that circulate even here in Las Vegas--or that I will die suddenly, a second father torn from him. More rosaries!

Let me say all this here, so I don’t have to say it in St. Louis. This is verging on self-pity, if indeed I haven’t crossed that line. I’m traveling light! I’m not taking this baggage to St. Louis! I am coming “home” to see your beautiful faces. Like Henry Fonda, lost in the woods, guided home by Katherine Hepburn in “On Golden Pond.”

So, back to our true purpose, hat tip to Pharrell Williams!

Helping Hands for Honduras--the folks that saved Chemo and so many other children in  need of open-heart surgery--had another fundraiser in Tegucigalpa, this time a special performance of a wild and crazy comedy about Honduras in the World Cup. It was pure magic, beginning with the location. This troupe of performers write their own productions, and have become pretty famous around here, but their theater is ensconced in a dark corner of the fourth level of an abandoned mall that looks like the one in “Children of Men.” But once inside, it’s all light and joy. The play was sheer formula, the men want to watch the World Cup, the wives want to watch soap operas, the loopy neighbor brings them all together, but it was so lively and endearing, it seemed like one long improv. I snapped pictures like crazy, and even Chemo took some photos on his cell phone. 

Dia de Lempira, celebrating the native chief who resisted the Spanish invasion of Honduras 500 years ago, had the kids dressed up in their little costumes, a tribute you might say to an undying hope that Lempira’s dream of a beautiful land could still come true.

Maestro en Casa, the education program Chemo is studying, had their annual event, too, celebrating Human Rights. Chemo was all set to perform a dance with the students in his class, but the other guys were too embarrassed, so it fell apart. Lots of other students from all over were not so shy, so there were plenty of performances.

Speaking of performers, Jorge “Nanqui” Cardona is becoming a national sensation! He’s the soccer player I told you about, eldest son of my supposed “girlfriend” Santa (in her dreams!) in Progreso. I first met in 1977, when Santa was about 10 years old. Nangui’s team, “Honduras Progreso,” is a rebirth of a team that had a short life in the 1960s; and they are getting noticed. I went to their game a couple weeks ago, which they won in a tense struggle 1-0 against an established team that must have asked themselves, “Who ARE these guys??” Nangui was outstanding in the game (“Player of the Week” in La Prensa), but his biggest “goal” came the day before, when his wife Marta gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. Nangui was with her the whole time at the clinic, and went right back there after the game. Meanwhile, the rest of the family celebrated with baleadas (stuffed flour tortillas) at Marta’s streetcorner stand, now staffed by her best friend Alicia. Follow the team on Twitter--?

We celebrated Fermin’s birthday, number 48 and he’s feeling it! But he was so loved and adored at least that day--including his daughter Arlin giving him his “baby bottle”--that it might last all year. 

Juan Carlos, the young man shot in the shoulder when a drunk was aiming at his boss, came back from Lajas to Las Vegas to visit family. The bullet hole has healed, no bigger than a skeeter bite, but the bullet itself is still lodged against his shoulder blade. But, you see, he’s on this “list” because there’s no hate in his heart, he’s just raising his boy, now in kindergarten, and loving his wife. 

And Padre Chepito has arrived to be our new pastor. There’s a Chamber of Commerce campaign to promote Honduran products, “HECHO EN CASA,” ‘homemade.’ Well, Chepito is just that, having grown up in our own mountains. In fact, our beloved Tia Clara told me he would stay at her house when he had errands or projects to do in Las Vegas. I am hoping Chemo will soon be making his First Communion with Chepito!

First I heard of Coca-Cola’s “Share a Coke with----” promotion was when an Internet hoax said that the “Michael” bottles were loaded with dirt by some disgruntled employee. When I found a “Jesus” Coke down here, I had to buy it. I got a “Juan” for Chemo (real name, Juan Anselmo), a “Maria” for Fermin’s wife, even an “Erick” for Ery, my neighbor with Down Syndrome. I have yet to find a “Miguel”....

But, thanks as always for sharing! See you soon!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2014 'BORDER CRISIS' edition

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2014: THE BORDER CRISIS

DOUBLE CROSS

Remember, I’ll be in St. Louis September 17 to October 15. Will I see you?

Well, they didn’t make it. Last month I sweat blood telling the anguished tale of Eduard, Freddy, and Rafael’s attempt to get to the United States. They only got as far as Veracruz, a port city snug in the lower curve of the map of Mexico. ‘Veracruz’ means ‘the true cross.’ More like a double cross, perhaps, when the police noticed them lingering in the bus station too long to be “locals.” So when they finally boarded, the police got on, too. They fingered Rafael and Freddy right away, then they just waited till the coyote finally stood up and nudged Eduard: “We better go, too.” With the little group no longer intact, any further progress was impossible. 

They spent five days in jail, apparently treated well enough, and never fully fingerprinted or registered, so another try will not be a “second offense,” I guess. The Mexican government runs buses all the way back, through Guatemala, to the Honduran border, a trip of at least fourteen hours. From there it’s a short jump to San Pedro Sula, where Fermin was waiting for them. I wish I could have eyewitnessed the re-union, but I think we can all picture it pretty well. I went to Morazan a few days later, to see them; Rafael and Freddy are ready for another go, and soon. Arlin, Freddy’s wife, tearfully explained Freddy’s “logic”: he can more quickly pay off the $2000 he lost in the aborted attempt if he gets work in the States right away. And the $4000 after a second failure? 

So let’s talk about the border. People are asking me for my thoughts and perspective about the current crisis, involving tens of thousands of children “flooding” into the United States. I usually don’t talk “politics” in the CASA, because you can get that on the news. I tell the stories you will never hear about folks that will never be in the news. But this is so big, I will try to offer some insight.

First of all, the United States has treated Central America like its back yard for a couple hundred years. “Banana republics” are very convenient when you don’t want any competition. How come you like a Japanese car but there’s never been a Honduran auto industry? The USA has hollowed out Honduras’ economy for years with cheap exports like bananas, wood, cement (!), not to mention the ‘maquilas,’ or sweatshops. 

Second, when Hurricane Mitch in 1998 chased thousands of, yes, refugees to the States, many fell into the webs of gangs when they couldn’t find work; they brought those “talents” back to Honduras when they were deported and have been a growing plague ever since. 

But, third, nothing prospered the gangs like the drug cartels, who used their ready-made organization to ply their trade. When air routes for drug transfers were successfully interdicted, land routes multiplied and Honduras became the fulcrum for South America’s supply and North America’s demand, corrupting every level of Honduran society, the law, the courts, the government, the police, the military, everything. Thus, Honduras became the bloodiest country on the planet. It’s trendy to say “meat is murder,” in defense of vegetarianism; a little less popular, but much truer, would be “marijuana is murder.” In fact, the Honduran President Juan Orlando Hernandez reminded President Obama that the “root of the immigration problem” is the gringo drug habit. (Of course, JOH, as he’s known here, is thoroughly corrupt himself!) 

[Update: the mayor of Yoro City was just arrested for drug trafficking, including 137 murders, dozens of rapes, land thefts, etc.; they’re expropriating at least 9 mansions, luxury automobiles, a carnival of exotic animals, including 250 fighting roosters valued at $2000 apiece. I’ll take your bets on his successful prosecution....]

So the word went out, some months ago, that children, or women with small children, would be “welcome” at the border. Was this some “code” from Obama to his sleeper cells, or was it opportunistic coyotes promising the moon, or sheer desperation? In last month’s CASA, I compared it to victims fleeing a burning building, and I see that metaphor everywhere now. 

And speaking of metaphors, how about “The Beast”! The freight trains that immigrants “board” for a ride through hell. One of my neighbors fell into the rails and was ground up a few years ago. In recent months, at least 6 trains have jumped the poorly maintained tracks, gobbling up dozens more souls as the whole train falls on top of them. Mexico recently budgeted to improve the tracks, so they can SPEED UP the trains, so people won’t be able to catch up to them and jump on to them. Yeah, that’ll work. And the gangs that “monitor” the trains; they’ll throw you off if you don’t satisfy their demands for money or sex or you name it immediately. 

I am as mystified as anyone, but I think it's a combination of a long build-up from this side of anxiety and despair and some hint of hope from the other side that NOW is the time. And so it has exploded into this mess. I think this article (sent by a dear friend in St. Louis) says it best: what "changed" was, the "immigrants" became "refugees." And I must note that Chemo’s brother Marcos and his girlfriend live in the “Nueva Suyapa” featured in the article. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 

 A Refugee Crisis, Not an Immigration Crisis

I have to say, the IQ of the average commentator seems to be cut in half when they approach this issue, saying the most hateful things about us here in Honduras, where people have allowed me to share their life in prayer and sharing. Of course, there are criminals and time-servers and hijackers sneaking in with the crowds; I’m not talking about them. But when you’re a poor, wayfaring stranger crossing Mexico, it can seem a million miles, and we forget that Honduras really is very close to “America,” just around the corner, you might say. So the differences in wealth and poverty seem inexcusable. 

Friends like you all, who have a heart for the poor, ask, What can we do? Well, with your help, I could just try to make things a teensy more “equal” here, if you want to save some people whose names and faces, from these CASA’s, you actually know.  

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2014

THE BIG PICTURE

I know I’m a pest, and I know there’s no one who can wipe away my credit-card debts, but you have been so wonderful to carry us through the “emergencies”! And these continue....

I think you know the big story of June, namely, Chemo’s sudden and scary sickness. We were in Tegucigalpa to visit Chemo’s brother Marcos. Chemo got his teeth cleaned and a few hours later was running a 103º fever. It abated a bit with some pills, but returned during the night, so at 6:00 in the morning we went to a private clinic where a wonderful young Doctor Celeste and an even kinder nurse Hilda went to work on him. They gave him a big shot in the butt, an intravenous in the arm, drew blood, and a cool, moist towel for his head. The blood results suggested Dengue Fever, which would have to be monitored for at least 5 more days, another blood draw every day. 

They dismissed the idea that the teeth-cleaning had anything to do with it, but some of you have confirmed the pre-medication advised for heart patients before any dental procedure. The dentist here had said it was unnecessary for only a cleaning, and Chemo has not had a problem before, but I do think we’ll play it safer in the future. 

Anyway, Chemo’s platelet numbers finally started trending upward, and we could go home, a week later than we had planned, “dead broke,” as they say. But thanks to you, my finances got a transfusion, too! 

Catching up on the emergency at the end of last month’s letter, let me note that Dania finally brought little Elio home after a week in the Yoro hospital following her cesarean section. I didn’t even want to think about her stretching up the high steps into the bus, the dirt roads that shake anything loose even if it’s “sewn up,” and the last 40 minutes from Victoria to Las Vegas in a moto-taxi that, in Dania’s condition, had to feel like a cement mixer made out of tinfoil. But she got a big welcome at the house, and lots of loving care. Like Chemo’s numbers, she soon trended upward till I could catch a happy smile on her pain-free face.

Not all emergencies are medical! Helen celebrated her 15th birthday, the special one for a young lady, the QUINCEAÑERA. So I told her mom Maricela, “Let’s do it up right!” She started figuring, just the family, cousins, etc. “That’s 90 kids right there.” OK, we’re gonna need a bigger cake! In fact, we ordered two of Carlota’s specialties, one of them topped with a quinceañera figurine. Chemo brought his computer, its iTunes loaded with songs, and he provided the music for the feast. There were balloons, games, even little gifts that some kids brought. At Mass on Sunday, Padre Jaime gave Helen a special blessing. You know, Helen has cerebral palsy, so she’ll never have a “normal” life; but neither will any of us if we fail to love her. 

Santa, my “girlfriend” in El Progreso, celebrates her birthday the same day as Helen, so we headed there the next day. Now that her kids are having kids, she’s sort of calmed down on the “when are we getting married?” pursuits, so we can just laugh and enjoy the time together, me blushing at her numerous double entendres. 

And I’m not the only “celebrity” anymore. Santa’s eldest, Jorge (better known by his nickname Nangui, for his flat nose), was featured in a story in “Diez,” a daily sports paper. They showed me the story--Nangui, 28, the star of the El Progreso soccer club, working hard during the day at construction sites to make a good home for his pregnant wife Marta expecting their first baby. The full-page story had pictures and everything, Nangui on the pitch and on the job. I tried like heck to find the story online, but it seems “Diez” considers sports too ephemeral to keep an archive of its items. 

For the second year in a row, Felix Cruz (the big guy that rescued my iPad from his nephew who had stolen it) arranged a special soccer game between kids from Las Vegas, here, and others now living in San Pedro Sula. I saw another chance to visit Maria and Fermin in Morazan on the way back, so off we went, a dozen or so, Saturday, June 28, in Marcelo’s van; he does a lot of little charters like this. 

When we passed the main square in San Pedro and saw it packed with revelers, loud music and drink abundant, it finally dawned on me why Felix chose this date. You see, San Pedro Sula is named for St. Peter, whose feast is celebrated June 29, a Sunday this year. At the soccer park, the interest in the game was actually second to the excitement for the “carnaval” that night, and some were already passing around beers. To me it seemed the perfect storm: hordes of people, bottomless booze, thieves abounding. I knew I’d lose Chemo in the crowd in the first fifteen minutes. So I finally persuaded him to leave the game a little early to catch a bus to Morazan, where we arrived about 7:00 p.m. Chemo slept the whole way, so I guess he knew he couldn’t party till dawn anyway. He had played about 15 minutes in the game on a hot day and got so tired he kept signaling to the ref for a substitution. So he was totally exhausted, as perhaps anyone who’s recently had a life-threatening illness would be!

In Morazan, Fermin and Maria greeted us with the somber news that Eduard, their 20-year-old son, would be heading for the United States on Monday, a venture postponed a month ago. Fermin just kept welling up with tears. “I’m not so worried that he’s going; I’m worried he’ll never come back.” Come back alive, that is. Maria was somehow more hopeful, that strength of a mother that even a husband has to depend on. Eduard would  be going with his brother-in-law Freddy, the husband of his sister Arlin, and another cousin, Rafael. Now when I heard that name, something clicked. In the Book of Tobit in the Bible, Tobit sends his son Tobias on a long journey to a foreign land, accompanied by a guardian angel in disguise, Raphael. So I told the guys that; okay, I guess it’s pure sentiment, but it gives me, and maybe them, more hope for their safe passage. 

Sunday the 29th was an emotional day. First of all, it’s Fermin’s father’s 73rd birthday; his name is Pedro, too, you see. While he was celebrating with friends and neighbors from the church where he pastors, next door at Arlin and Freddy’s house, a group was gathering who would be sending their loved ones up to the States. Fermin felt bad that he was not with his father, but, as he said, “Miguel, I just can’t do it today.” When Freddy asked Fermin to say a prayer, we all embraced shoulder-to-shoulder while Fermin (I swear he was touched by an angel!) offered this full and winding prayer that seemed to mark every step the immigrants were about to take; he went on, in gentle swirls of praise, thanksgiving, and petition, begging God’s mercy and protection and care, for those going and those staying behind, till everyone was crying, including Fermin, all of us helplessly humbled before God’s loving will. Once all the folks departed, including Pedro’s guests, just the family gathered together at Pedro’s house, to ponder what the future would bring. For the moment, it meant a meal; Maria went out and picked up some Chinese. (Food, you understand.)

On Monday, I tagged along to San Pedro, where the “illegal aliens” would meet up with their “coyote” at the huge bus terminal just outside the city. This man is trustworthy and true, linked with cohorts all along the way who provide lodging, food, and extra clothes (they carry only a tiny fanny pack), as well as experienced guidance in circumventing the “federales.” But I have to say the last photo I took, of Freddy desperately hugging his wife Arlin and child Fredito, is just too heart-wrenching for public viewing. And typical of such moments, Fermin suddenly remembered, “Oh my God! I forgot to give Freddy his license; it’s his only ID!” So off he runs, catching them just before they board the bus. 

First stop, Guatemala, where a former neighbor of Fermin was waiting for them, and by golly about 8:30 last night, a text message announced their safe arrival! Now for four days or more in Mexico, the dark side of the moon, no communication at all till they’re inside “America.” 

You can hardly blame people for running out of a burning building, especially when the United States stokes the flames with its filthy drug habits that kill 21 Hondurans a day in the traffickers’ crossfire, and the scrofulous economy that results  from such corruption. I’m only here to say it doesn’t have to be like this. 

But today, July 1, Maria returned to work, after 2 months’ rest from an operation; her little fourth graders squealed with delight to see her again. Some people have kids, and some special people treat other people’s kids just like their own. 

Like you treat me!

Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2014

A MONTH OF SUNDAYS

I just made reservations for St. Louis, September 17 to October 15, 2014. See you!!

Time to thank more of you, even more gratefully if that’s possible, for donations that you will find laced throughout this report. If anyone else “has my back,” I can do still more good things.

The rains came early this year, April 30 to be exact, after several days of some weak rumbles in the sky, a mammoth storm burst forth with the pent-up fury of a six-month wait. A “hurricane” we call it. The next day, May 1, the same thing at the same time, 3:30 p.m., just a little less scary. The next day, the weather had reached its balance, a nice, long, soaking rain, calling the campesinos to start their planting. Virtually overnight, everything greened up, and we could see our mountain again La Peña, shrouded in the dry season by a heavy haze of dust and smoke.

Chemo and I went “into the fields,” too, you might say. We went to Morazan, to see how we could help Maria in her recovery from the surgery I mentioned at the tail end of last month’s CASA. I just wanted to spend a couple days, just enough to help with expenses and some yard work or whatever. I didn’t want us to be a bother, you know. Well, Maria and Fermin’s kids were already on the job, Eduard, 20, now teaching sixth graders, Esly, 17, about to graduate 9th grade, and Arlin, 26, principal at a little school just outside of Morazan, living apart with her own family (husband and baby boy)--they all pitched in. I did clean up some dead banana branches and such and other trash, and I gave Maria money to pay the “trabajadora” Cristina for a month, and with the grandkids, Gladis and Michelle, we followed Maria’s shopping list at the Supermercado on the main street, where I paid the tab.

But we kept extending our visit, when Fermin invited us to a song festival at his grade school, and another festival at his high school, plus yet another festival for Mother’s Day. I had to sort of pry it out of him, but in fact he had organized all three of the events. So we couldn’t say no!

Let me tell you what I told Fermin and Maria. Last year, Fermin was very sick, almost to the point of death, and I knew nothing about it. Somehow I had dropped communication, and I felt terrible when I eventually found out what had been going on. So I said, “I’m not going to make the same mistake twice!” Thus, Project Maria. We’d be helping as long as it took.

The festivals were a lot of fun, and, in Fermin’s hands, practically professional. It was raining pretty hard for the first one, so they set up a tent to try to cover the performers, and stationed students at each corner to keep it from flying away in the wind. Finally, one kid, Jose Luis, an 8th grader, realized the rain had stopped, so he sauntered out among the crowd, just as casual as Sinatra, singing his ballad and timing it perfectly to end right back at the tent. Did I mention this was a competition? Over Fermin’s objections, I should add, because while Jose Luis was the obvious winner, he didn’t even place; the principal’s earnest but, shall we say, talent-challenged daughter got the prize.

The next festival featured Fermin’s own adaptation of “Don Quijote,” and the major success here was the ease with which he had rehearsed the teens to lose their self-consciousness and enjoy the nonsense, as Sancho Panza wooed a wind-aided (some balloons in her bosom) Dulcinea for his master the Don.

The Mother’s Day program had Fermin’s daughter Esly as the M.C. Already an experienced host from her time at the local radio station, she was better than the little band the principal had hired, which kept interrupting at just the wrong moments.

One afternoon, while Maria was resting, Miguel (my namesake!) talked his cousin Gladis, both 11, into trying the moto-cross run laid out for the upcoming fair--on their bikes! Gladis, who is a little clumsy anyway--slightly pigeon-toed, awkward--went tumbling off her bike end-over-end at full speed downhill, scraping and gouging knees, shoulders, elbows, her back, her front, and chin like she’d spent 10 minutes in a cement mixer. Somehow she escaped with her teeth and head intact, no broken bones. (Not like 13-year-old Jairo here in Las Vegas who landed smack on his face off his bike; he needed 16 stitches INSIDE HIS MOUTH!) Just cleaning Gladis up sent screams into the air, while Miguel observed nervously from a distance. I could not even think about taking a photo, not even for “historical” purposes. Fermin remained calm when he got home, probably for Maria’s sake: “Son, you have to take care of Gladis, not get her hurt.”

Back in Las Vegas, Chemo passed a test for Maestro en Casa, I helped a stricken gentleman Isaias get to the doctor when was sure he was having a heart attack, we celebrated a feast of the Virgin Mary under her Islamic title Our Lady of Fatima, I had another vomiting fit (you know, I thought the mayonnaise tasted funny I was making the tuna salad with, but, in my 66 years that is my accumulated knowledge: if the mayo tastes funny, eat it anyway!). Tragic was the miscarriage of my neighbors Angela and Manuel’s baby in the seventh month, the son “Manuelito” they had longed for to join their 3 daughters. Elvis made a tiny casket for the tiny grave that a friend had dug, and I, at a loss for anything helpful to say or do, slipped them some cash to help pay for the rolls and coffee at the “funeral.”

Then Chemo and I headed back to Morazan.

Again intending just a “touch-up,” we got caught up this time in the annual feast and fair that was now underway, honoring the Virgin Mary under yet another title, Maria Nuestra Senora de los Desamparados (Our Lady of the Helpless), a celebration inherited from Spain. Maybe the timing was not coincidental, because our Maria made her first outing since the operation, to the Super Market, my wallet at the ready, the little girls (Gladis has improved remarkably already from her wounds) happily pushing the cart and tossing in the Honduran version of Hostess’ chocolate cupcakes and other goodies; and then we celebrated Maria’s recovery in general, piling everyone into Fermin’s pick-up for a trip to El Progreso and Pizza Hut.

Las Vegas’ own annual feast of the Holy Cross was celebrated May 1-5. We dedicated a 20-foot steel cross, complete with lights, that Mauricio (“Picho” to his friends) had made, a work of art, you might say, our version of the Gateway Arch. (Or is it too HOLLYWOOD?) And there’s a new shrine to Mary, a grotto carved into the side of the hill. Title: Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal, patron of the Legion of Mary, the most active group here for good works.

Everybody’s favorite non-religious activity for the fair is the “cintas,” or ribbons, riding a pony at full gallop and plucking a tiny ring off a wire, with a ball-point pen! The one with the most ribbons wins, though I can hardly imagine ever even getting one.

Now, please don’t laugh too hard at us Catholics that we seemingly can’t walk two steps without grabbing for Mary’s hand. She’s Jesus’ mother, so it all comes down to that. Her brave and peasant story is re-played here in the poor on a daily basis.

For example, Santos, 43, mother of 12, from Nueva Palmira (think: poverty, squared). I was hoping this CASA would be Sunday every day (and it still will have two happy endings!), until Santos’ first-born, Juan Carlos, 26, was shot in Lajas, a distant destination for people looking for work, coffee picking in the winter, farmwork in the spring. First word was, Juan Carlos is dead, then that changed to “inconsiente” on life-support, at the hospital in Comayagua, four hours from Lajas.

Santos’ blessed smile graces the cover with three of her children of my photobook “Recuerdos” from a couple years ago, but when I hurried to Nueva Palmira, a short hike from Las Vegas, her face was gutted with grief and fear.

Fortunately, Santos has a sister, Olga, in Comayagua who could check on Juan Carlos herself. Imagine my astonishment when I called her and she handed the phone to him! Turns out his boss had recently murdered his own wife for “fooling around,” and her family was out for revenge. Juan Carlos got caught in the crossfire, a single bullet lodging right below his left collarbone. So he was alive, but a full recovery would take months.

Santos, of course, was frantic to be by his side; she did not know the area, so another sister, Bernarda, familiar with it all, would accompany her. I gave them all the cash I had on hand, 3000 Lempiras (about $150); the last thing anyone needs is to run short in the “wild west” of Honduras!

Since he can’t work now, Juan Carlos and his wife and two kids won’t be able to stay in the “apartment” his boss provided for them on the farm (and the badly wounded boss might die anyway), so they’ll return to Nueva Palmira, where Juan Carlos has been sending money for a while now to build his a little house, mostly the work of his father Digno, even though he only has one hand. I saw it! It’s shaping up nicely, but how will they finish it now? They married at age 15, and I swore (and swore at them!) that it would never last, and yet there they were, responsibly planning their future--till a stray bullet threatens to take it all away. But he’s alive, and I’m counting that as a happy ending....

But now I had to scramble, for the “emergency” that I was actually saving the money for,  namely, the birth of Marcos and Dania’s baby, Chemo’s cousins, due May 27. When the baby did not come, and Dania’s hands and feet swelled alarmingly, this was a sign of trouble. At the tiny Maternity Ward in Victoria, they are unprepared for any “problem” pregnancy, so they sent Dania and her mother-in-law Natalia off to the Yoro Hospital, three hours away.

I thought the baby had died, and I was telling people so, till Marcos called me up in tears: “Miguel! What happened to my baby?” I fumbled around and Chemo and I ran over to the house about 10:00 at night; by then, Marcos had managed to talk to Dania. The baby was not “lost”; he just hadn’t been born yet. So Marcos and I went up to Yoro the next day on the earliest bus we could get. Well, I HAD to go, I had to get to an ATM, to throw the bucket down the well once more, see what I could dredge up. Soon after we got there, the doctor said we can’t wait any longer, has to be Caesarian. Ouch! Then the electricity went off, in the whole town. The only part of the hospital that has a back-up generator is the operating room, but who knew when they’d get to Dania? In this World, you’re always Third.

But I slipped off for no more than a half hour, to the ATM, and when I got back, Marcos greets me, “He’s here!” That fast? Yes! And we fell into each other’s arms, crying; someone says, “Oh my God, did your baby DIE?” “NO! We’re happy! these are tears of joy!”

But like Juan Carlos, Dania is in for a long recovery. Natalia was telling me how all her children were born right in the house, up in the mountains in those days; she’d cut the umbilical cord herself with a pair of sewing shears. But she made the perfect nurse for Dania, at her side 24/7 for four days, and Marcos, too. They’re naming the baby for his grandfather, Elio, Natalia’s husband. “Now we’ll have a big one and a little one,” she says. So that’s a happy ending, OK? Or maybe a happy beginning, because now the hard part starts: the rest of his life.

Another happy ending, you can see for yourself. I just talked to my sister Barb, whose house burned up a week before Christmas. She’s been slowly getting things back together, and when I told her the dates I’ll be in town (September 17-October 15), she bursts out, “Great! We’ll have the Open House right here!” Bring a snack, and some wallpaper.

The whole month of May is the Month of Mary, featuring the tradition of children bringing flowers in her honor every day up to the church. We sing a song so old, Mary may have sung it to Jesus; I’m sure the kids don’t understand some of the words, but let me try to translate one verse:

Jamás tu amor consienta Your love never will allow
Que en este triste mundo That in this sad old world
Fiero cual mar profundo The fierce waves to overwhelm us
Sufran algún revés. And we be lost.

You are my “bucket list”! Thank you for keeping me afloat!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2014

WALK THE WALK

Thank you with all my heart for help you gave me; any other kind souls who can make a donation, I promise to honor your trust.

After 6 weeks in hibernation, licking my financial wounds, Chemo and I ventured out on a new round of visits. I almost had to make the trip alone. Chemo was scared to go back to Morazan, the first stop on our itinerary. “Fermin is still mad at me,” recalling the scolding he got for staying out late with Eduard, Fermin’s son, and neighbor Hansel last time we were there. I had already talked to Fermin at least 3 times, and he had no problem with Chemo’s return, “as long as he respects our curfew.” The 5:00 a.m. bus was already blowing its horn, I was locking the front door behind me, when Chemo finally bounced out of bed (“All right, I’ll go!”), threw a few things together, and scrambled ahead of me to hold the bus as it was about to leave.

Of course, Chemo and Fermin immediately reconciled, and there would be no problem with late nights since Eduard was actually teaching classes at Fermin’s school, subbing for a teacher who just had a baby. Meanwhile, we learned that Maria, Fermin’s wife, would be needing a sub herself at the little school across the river where she teaches. She was scheduled for an operation in Yoro Monday, April 28. I took her to the supermarket to stock up on things, and I assured her we would return to help with her recuperation, at least paying for a ‘trabajadora’ to cook and clean and do the wash. It would be fun to try to cook for Maria instead of just sitting down to one of her magical meals that she seems to produce out of thin air. I guess! (The wonderful writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez just died, famed for his “magical realism”; Maria is the Garcia Marquez of menus!)

Hansel shared the “secret” that he’s going to the United States, along with his mother and two little sisters and a brother. They were leaving in a couple days and he figured they’d be in Orlando, Florida, where they have relatives waiting for them, by the end of the week. I thought about trying to describe the relative distances of Honduras and Orlando, but I just wished him well, shivering with the fear inside that I would never see him alive again. His 17-year-old cousin Jefry across the street, after two attempts, is already in Houston, happy as a lark and working in “construction,” so Hansel sees no reason for concern. We’ll stay in touch on FACEBOOK, you see (“Hansel Aquino Moti”). Hansel is the one who was supposed to study with Chemo when Chemo was going to attempt Maestro en Casa in Morazan. Now he’ll be in Disney World.

Fermin is staying in the fight right here. Along with some activist lawyers and other associates, he is leading the “opposition” to the government’s attempt to squelch the pensions of teacher retirees. They have fashioned a bill now before Congress, and the trick will be to unite at least three of the minority political parties to get it passed. Fermin was on TV two nights in a row while we were there, with interviews to explain the plan. No one does this better than Fermin! He knows exactly what to say in favor of the legislation to motivate his side and what NOT to say, lest you alienate the other side. It was a little weird, too, because both interviews were taped, so Fermin’s sitting right there with us eating supper while we’re watching him on TV. He didn’t even look up.

Since everybody leaves the house by 7:00 a.m., Chemo and I took an early bus to El Progreso, and lo and behold, just before it pulls out, Hansel and his family climb aboard. So I guess they meant it! They would be taking the bus to San Pedro Sula, and then, well, you know, on to “America.” By the time Chemo and I got off in Progreso, Chemo’s mom was dead asleep, her mouth wide open, her babes draped about her. We exchanged one last good-bye with Hansel and that was that.

We hadn’t visited Santa and the family in El Progreso since January, but the most recent birthday was her daughter Karla’s just a week before. So we got a cake, Santa fixed lunch, and then we had a pizza party that night. But the funnest (I hate that word!) part was watching the kids jump over an electric cord stretched between them; they jumped a couple dozen times till I finally got their grandmother Tina to try it. I thought, if she trips we’re going to the hospital, but she did it!

Another early morning and we were off to Tegucigalpa. I had promised Chemo a huge, glorious MegaBus type transportation, but I guess the Ulua bus company is cutting back, so it was a van. But still comfortable enough that I could finally start reading John Green’s “The Fault in Our Stars,” the book everyone was talking about when former student James Weske mentioned it on FACEBOOK, and he sent me copy! A digital copy, so I was reading it on the iPad former colleague Kathy Blundon gave me in St. Louis last time I was there. Amazing, on all counts--the iPad, Kathy, James, and the novel!

Actually, I was going to read the book for Lent, but some kid stole the iPad right out of my house! Not just any kid, mind you, Doenis, the one who so humbly joined me at Alcoholics Anonymous a while ago. I guess it takes more than one meeting to get on the right path. I was sort of afraid to pursue the matter, but Chemo immediately went to Doenis’ uncle Felix, a guy I’ve known since 1982 when he was 7 years old; he was the first kid to figure out how to put a jigsaw puzzle together (first, you turn all the pieces face up). Felix is now a big guy, huge, a Hulk, so he jumped on his motorcycle and headed up to Panal in the mountains where Doenis had taken refuge. Like Arnold famously said, “I’ll be back.” I would have loved to have seen their “conversation,” which Felix assured me was nonviolent, but he gave me no details. I had been trying to keep the iPad a secret, you know, for security reasons. Now the whole world knows. But they know, too, that they’ll have to deal with Felix if they mess with me!

We went to Tegucigalpa to celebrate Chemo’s brother Marcos’ 17th birthday. As soon as we arrived, we took Marcos and his girlfriend Jessica to Pizza Hut, where I told our server it was Marcos’ birthday, so the staff performed for him, unfazed by the hoopla. His actual birthday was the next day, Saturday, April 26; an invitation had shown up on the FACEBOOK page of “Helping Hands for Honduras” to a “Dia Benefico” to raise funds for the brigadas that come every 3 months to do open-heart operations on little boys and girls, the same folks that saved Chemo’s life back in 2008. The restaurant COCO BALEADAS would contribute proceeds from their sales all day Saturday to Helping Hands. Alba and Ron Roll, who head the foundation, said they and the family would be there around 4:00 p.m., so that’s when we had Marcos’ “official” birthday party. A typical baleada is the size of a crepe, but these “COCO” baleadas (a flour tortilla stuffed with any variety of cheeses, meats, veggies, sauces, etc.) are as big as Yule logs, so even one is a meal. But, for a good cause, we ate as much as we could! We made another donation to get Chemo a shirt, and take his picture with Alba and Ron’s daughter Cynthia, who organized the event.

Meanwhile, the report on the most recent Brigada in March features a little piece on Chemo. I have attached it, just scroll down to see the story. (I’ll try to send the whole report in a separate mailing, if I can figure out how!)

On Sunday, we went to church! Marcos and Jessica live within about 3 blocks, but this was their first visit since they’ve been living in the area. It’s a huge church, but with a hometown feel. There are Masses all morning, and you can tell the priests know most of the people personally. Folks bring their newborns for a blessing, the choir sings favorites, the sermons are informal, families sit together, and the schedule is flexible. In our case, the 11:00 Mass started about 11:35, as the 10:00 service lingered on. It’s the most dangerous barrio in the city, so I carried almost nothing with me, just a little cash, and my camera, though Marcos says things are better now that the place is crawling with military, the latest effort to lower the crime rate. We had no problem, except when Chemo gave a couple tiny kids 20 Lempiras to share and the smaller one almost immediately returned in tears to say the other guy kept it all. But this was staged, as you could tell when they started running around laughing and pulling the same trick on other tourists. You know, you hate to see kids begging, especially when they’re “liars,” but I do love to see the human spirit undefeated!

Back home in Las Vegas, Holy Week began with Palm Sunday, recreating Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem with a teen riding a friendly burro up to the church. But the real highlight was Holy Thursday, when Padre Chicho returned for a visit. He had been pastor here for 10 years, and he could hardly contain himself. “I’m so happy to see you all again!” And I realized how much I missed his sermons when he spoke from the heart of the love of Jesus. “That’s the whole story, right there,” as Jesus washed the feet of his apostles. In fact, members of the congregation spontaneously washed each other’s feet with extra bowls of water and towels. Good Friday was solemn enough, with a three-hour Way of the Cross circling through town to houses we had never visited before. Easter Sunday Mass was followed by games for the kids, sack races and popping balloons while running (and jumping) full tilt, each balloon with a little prize inside.

 But the big news is Chemo’s littlest cousin Nelson (“Necho”) taking his first steps at almost 2 years of age. The poor little guy has been scooting on his often naked butt all this time, scooping up dirt and mud and God knows what (parasites love anal entrances). With a little help from his friends, we finally got Necho on his feet.

I really can’t fault the family for Necho’s late development, since I’m usually stumbling around myself, and I can’t blame that just on my awful shoes. When I bought them less than 2 months ago, they looked so “solid,” but soon enough holes opened up in what were after all mostly hollow heels. Rocks would lodge in the holes and I’d leave them there, they were the only “support” I had! When one perfectly shaped oblong stone finally fell out, a tree burr took its place. Then the shoe tops started separating from the soles, and I thought I gotta get some new shoes before I’m walking around in flip-flops! I finally found something solid, but these dirt streets and mountain paths are murder on any shodding, so we’ll see.

But it’s you who steady my walk, and make it possible to fulfill my “mission.” Whenever you offer a prayer or encouragement or a dollar, it’s a gift.

Update on Maria as we go to print: the operation was a success, Maria resting comfortably back at home, the recuperation on schedule.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2014

LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL

I know I wrote it myself, but somehow this version of my last report, as it appeared in THE BEACON / ST. LOUIS PUBLIC RADIO NEWS, touched me even more. Chemo finding his footing.

http://news.stlpublicradio.org/post/commentary-honduras-four-choices-or-what-young-man-without-diploma-do

But it will be my last published report. Donna Korando, my editor from The Beacon, fought to keep me on the “staff,” but the merger with St. Louis Public Radio News decided to drop my “Letter from Honduras,” preferring commentary of more “local” relevance. Well, the idea that stories of the Honduran poor have no local appeal will come as a surprise to the 10,000 or 20,000 Hondurans who live in St. Louis. Maybe one of you could tell the stories of Hondurans in St. Louis. Either that, or back to the shadows, amigos! 

Lent has taught me some very harsh truths; or maybe it’s Adam Smith. All I know is, I’m underwater. I’m in debt more than I make in a year, including $15,000 just in credit cards. Losing the $75 stipend from The Beacon may not seem like much, but it feels like the tipping point, along with losing Chemo as a boost on my income taxes. I could sell my house, which is worth about that much (but who could buy it??), and then I guess I’d sneak back into St. Louis, ashamed and longing for a job at McDonald’s. Imagine! 

So I ask for any more help you can give me. So many need so much. 

We’re still carrying Erlinda, who just observed the six-month anniversary of her husband Guillermo’s death. The date fell on a Sunday, so she asked Padre Manuel for a special mention at the evening Mass, and she had prepared some little “recuerdos” that I helped her with, bookmarks featuring a photo and a prayer. Her own health problems,  with diabetes, and her daughter Maricela with the same problem, and Maricela’s daughter Marite with kidney issues, are always a priority in my attempts at budgeting. Regular clinic visits in Tegucigalpa and El Progreso turn maintenance into a major expense, especially when the government runs out of pills. And now Alba, Chemo’s aunt where we eat supper, is having recurring heart issues. Santos, her husband, is trying to hit up a politico for help. Yeah, that’ll work. Manuel continues his daily visits from Terrero Blanco, hungry for the specialty of the house, spaghetti bolognesa, and other kids are crowding into the circle, too, as I dish it up. You know, everybody’s hungry here! (I snapped a great picture of Manuel hugging his grandpa Pilo on Father’s Day.)

But you already know those stories. Here’s some more, that give me--and you, I hope--a cause for sharing. 

A girl’s 15th birthday--the Quinceañera--is her debut as a woman, according to tradition. Mayde, the daughter of Luisa, one of the most popular, not to say glamorous, teachers at our school, got the royal treatment. The back yard was strung with lights and decorated in princess style, including a special entrance at the back stairs, her friends and classmates in their showiest fashions, two cartloads of presents, enormous plates of food loaded with three dishes in one--a beef kebob, a lettuce taco, a mound of fried rice--not to mention a 5-tiered cake and bottles of Welch’s grape juice “champagne,” lots of music and dancing, and constant photos. Included were Mayde’s father, who departed the scene some years ago for another woman in El Progreso, and other relatives of that “side” of the family. 

Alberto, the “new man” in Luisa’s life, looked over the whole scene with generous--and, I should say--humble approval, appreciating Mayde as his own. At some quieter time of the evening, Alberto and I could talk. He and Luisa find themselves in a Catch-22: they want to get married “in the Church,” but Alberto has never been baptized. Someone told  him, he says, we can’t get married until I’m baptized, and he can’t get baptized while they’re “living in sin.” I told him, “That’s why we have Pope Francis!” According to “The Joy of the Gospel,” a copy of which Francis gave to President Obama last week at the Vatican, the Church opens doors, not closes them. And indeed, Padre Manuel is already on the case. 

The huge expense of Mayde’s party was painful, of course, to my self-righteousness. I don’t begrudge a celebration of your children, but it seemed so excessive in our poor town. So it made me cry to see Chemo’s cousin Damaris celebrate her Quinceañera a couple days later with nothing much more than the 5-pound chicken I bought for the family at Abel’s store, the biggest bird in the freezer. Damaris, every bit as pretty as Mayde, even without the hours of hairstyling and make-up, was abandoned by both her parents, and will never be a debutante, so shy and shadowed in her poverty is she that even school proved too much of an exposure; she celebrated her day helping with the little family “business” of washing other people’s clothes. (And sometimes she has to go back two or three times to collect, a challenging foray.)  

Damaris had just returned from three months of coffee-picking in El Transito, the last of the family, along with Natalia’s daughter Estela and sons Dionis and Marcos and his wife Dania and their three kids, Beatriz, Lindolfito, and Daguito. Now Dania is pregnant with their fourth child. We waited for them all morning, and I made sure we had coffee and rolls all ready as soon as they arrived, and then, as they settled in and relaxed a bit, the fixin’s for a typical and tasty breakfast of eggs and refried beans with sides of cheese and mantequilla, and hot fresh tortillas, and for this special day, ice-cold Pepsi. It marked a red-letter day for me, since it was the first time I dared to indulge in the same meal that almost killed me a month ago. I was very glad to be back in the saddle instead of riding the porcelain donkey! 

Again, a quiet moment, as I was about to leave. Marcos called me aside, into the house. “Hermano, I have this for you, what you loaned me.” And he handed me two lavender 500-Lempira bills, the equivalent of $50. This represented literally days of coffee picking, and I felt like a Scrooge accepting it, but it was the end of the month and this would tide me over. “Marcos, I want to cry,” so grateful and so desperate was I for this poor man’s money. But I already knew what I would do; a couple days later when I went to Yoro to squeeze more blood from the stone of my bank, I used most of the money to buy Marcos a cell phone, to replace the one he sweated to death in El Transito. And then HE was so grateful! “Hermano, you always take good care of us.” Please! As I told him, a man with a pregnant wife needs to be able to communicate. And they both know I’m here with other “loans” along the way, such as Dania’s ultrasound at Dr. Wilmer’s office in Victoria coming up this week. 

Chemo and I began the month of March with a trip to Tegucigalpa (which is how I blew the whole month’s budget in one week!). The Brigada was in town again. As usual Ron Roll and his wife Alba were thrilled to see Chemo; Ron grabbed Shaun, a young volunteer who was doing stories on the kids for the BabyHeart newsletter in Memphis, and had him interview me and Chemo for a future feature. I loved telling Chemo’s story all over again, and I had to choke back some tears along the way, it still overwhelms me so. I emailed Shaun some pictures of Chemo’s operation; it seems so long ago, September 2008. Then Dr. Mark Gillette, a first-timer with the Brigada, did a quick echocardiogram of Chemo, so quick I barely had time to snap a picture. I thought, Hey, this guy’s sharp! He pronounced Chemo fit as a fiddle. That’s something. 

Also in Tegucigalpa, we saw Chemo’s little brother Marcos. He’s just 16, but ol’ Marcos has got himself a “wife,” Jessica, who is 19. Ever since we heard about this hook-up some months ago, I had my doubts that anything good would come of it. Well, turns out they are actually happy together! Marcos is even more laid back than before, if that’s possible, and Jessica is sort of mothering him as well wife-ing him. We took them out three times in three days, once to the mall, where I was sure they would ask for everything in sight. Not at all! In fact, get this. We stopped in a bookstore, my idea, but I noticed Jessica was looking around, and looking around; when I saw her near the children’s books, I thought, Oh God, they’re pregnant! But then she kept circling back to “Matar a un Ruisenor.” You know it as “To Kill a Mockingbird.” “We read some of this in high school,” she said. Marcos never got past second grade. “Then you must read this to him,” I said, and I bought it for her! I swear, this is first time anyone ever wanted a book in my time in Honduras. That’s something. So I am hopeful for their relationship, after all. Besides, she is the niece of Marcos’ boss, so he’s being “watched.” 

I assumed term limits applied to my presidency of the Parents Association at the school, one and done, so when Profe Flor the principal announced at the first big meeting of the year, “Of course, you can always elect the same officers again,” I panicked. Then I heard whispers of “Miguel” this and “Miguel” that in the room. “Who seconds Miguel?” Flor asked, following proper procedures, you know. She turned to the board and began to write, “Presidente Miguel,” my heart was in my throat, then she finished, “Cruz.” Yes! Yes! He’s a wonderful, guy! Of course, I’d gush over anyone taking my place, but I’ve known him so many years, ever since I heard him give a little sermon in his home village up in the mountains before he moved to Las Vegas, warning us not to accept a “cheap Jesus” that we could manipulate for our own benefit. And he said more in his first ten minutes after his election than I said all year. 

For Father’s Day--here celebrated March 19, Feast of St. Joseph--the students at the school performed songs and poems and skits and dances for the dads. Even though Chemo is not at the school anymore, I was invited and gladly accepted. Just like my time at Parkway North, I love to see the kids at their best. 

The same day, a new dad, Javier, was desperately trying to save his little baby Brittany’s life, fighting pneumonia at the hospital in Yoro, where an ambulance from Victoria had taken her. (The “ambulance” is a white pick-up, not exactly EMT, don’t you know!) Mommy Yolanny went, too, of course, and just when they thought the tiny child was on the mend, and had actually checked out of the hospital, she fell limp in their arms again on the bus home, and they immediately headed back to Yoro, I don’t even know how. Finally, a couple more days of “intensive care” (these are all very relative terms here in Honduras, in case your image of a hospital is Mercy or St. Luke’s) and Brittany came home, for good, for very good! I snapped a picture, and you never saw a happier little family. The help I could give them made the whole emergency a little easier.

The month ended with a “retreat” last Sunday in the church. Padre Manuel had delegated each portion of the day to a different volunteer, and at first I thought, Oh, boy, this is gonna be a long day. But from the very first word, they exceeded all my expectations. Maybe it helped that, against all odds, I decided I would do my best to stay out of God’s way, discard my doubts, and let my heart empty out. So I was amazed all day, filled to overflowing. The theme of the day was “light” and the blindness that keeps us from appreciating it. Most touching for me was when we dramatized a popular video that maybe you’ve seen on YouTube (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CKvvSLC29Ws) where a blind panhandler has his sign--”I’m blind”--changed by a Good Samaritan to, “It’s a beautiful day.” Padre Manuel remembered it a little differently, “La vida es bella“ (“Life is beautiful”), but it’s the same idea, changing a self-pitying message to a prophetic one. But what really got to me was that Don Fausto, the only rich man in town humble enough to, as Martin Luther King put it, “recognize his dependence on God,” played the beggar. He’s such a simple soul, how can I ever thank him for opening MY eyes? I’ll mention it when I give him a copy of the photo....

And do you know you bless me, too, beyond measure! It is ironic that, having slogged and slid through your horrible winter, you see spring greening up everything again (and Go Cards!), while here we are in full summer, the driest, hottest, dustiest time of the year. Our greening comes later in May. But that’s...OK. Oh yes, life is beautiful!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2014

PLACE YOUR BETS

“The Beacon” / “St. Louis Public Radio News” fashioned my last report, the ups and the upchucks, sweet celebrations and sour sickness, into one fine presentation:

http://news.stlpublicradio.org/post/commentary-letter-honduras-sickness-and-celebration

Will Chemo pass seventh grade, second time around? 

You’d have to say, the odds are in his favor. In fact, it looked like a lock, when he talked me into signing him up for Maestro en Casa in Morazan, where he would spend weekends with Fermin and Maria and their kids. They have a very professional program there, directed by Fermin’s brother-in-law Javier, including actual classes on Saturdays that cover the material the students will be working on during the week at home in their “cuadernos” (combination text- and workbook). Eduard, Fermin’s son, would be able to coach him along, and another buddy, Hansel, was eager to help, too. Hansel even invited Chemo to attend Confirmation classes with him on Fridays, where Chemo could also prepare for First Communion. I loved the idea, the whole big picture, and just put the question of how we’d finance weekly trips on the back burner. Like Scarlet O’Hara, “I’ll think about that tomorrow.” 

Things fell apart very quickly. Fermin, who had already on previous visits chased Chemo into the house after late-night sessions in the street with Hansel and Eduard, warned Chemo that he would have an early curfew. Well, that very night, the day we signed Chemo up, Fermin woke me about midnight, scolding Chemo outside my window. As I told Chemo, “You already failed your first test!” and I promised Fermin there would be no more episodes. The next morning, Javier very kindly refunded my money, and Chemo, a little shaken, packed up to return to Las Vegas. 

Looking back, I guess the failure was inevitable; Eduard and Hansel were as easily distracted as Chemo. Fermin and Maria would do anything for us, but I would have been on pins and needles the whole year, worrying about the imposition. 

So back to the drawing board. The ball was still in Chemo’s court. He decided to try Maestro en Casa in Las Vegas, joining a couple buddies, Elder and Carlitos, also not stellar students but we’re not setting the bar so high anymore. Elder and Carlitos dropped out of seventh grade last year BEFORE they flunked, and went to work with their uncle Marvin the mechanic, who repairs everything from bicycles to dump trucks, though nowadays the largest portion of his business are the moto-taxis, those ramshackle three-wheeled modified motorcycles reconfigured for transporting passengers. From the money they’ve earned, Elder and Carlitos are paying their own way for Maestro en Casa, so that provides some extra motivation to carry them, and maybe Chemo too, along to a successful conclusion. 

And Chemo has a back-up if Maestro en Casa fails. He’s learning to be a tailor from Ostin, who’s been sewing for 20 years. Ostin is a very patient, engaging teacher. He even gave Chemo a “test,” after a few lessons, to make a proper back pocket. Chemo got it on the second try. Of course, Chemo barely understands the importance of having a marketable skill, especially one so domestic, so he’s “bored.” Bored? What about Ostin? His “real” job is at a sweatshop in San Pedro Sula, where he works 4 12-hour shifts a week (he prefers the overnight slot because it pays more), and returns to Las Vegas for a few days off. He showed me a little video on his cell phone: he sews one seam on a tee-shirt and passes it on to someone else who sews the collar, who passes it on to someone who sews a sleeve, etc., 500 dozen a day. The clothes are exported to Canada. Are there even 500 dozen people in Canada? But it’s good work if you can get it. Could Chemo get a job like that? Ostin warned that they’ll take on look at Chemo’s open-heart surgery scar and turn him down, too risky for their “insurance” plan.

So, Plan C? Moto-taxi! Chemo rides with drivers (some as young as 13, unlicensed of course) all over town, including trips to Victoria and also to some villages toward the hills. I’m supposed to buy him one, you see, and his future would be set. “I’ll charge a little less, and I’ll get all the business!” I can just imagine the “business” he’d get! But the things are on display at a store in Victoria, and at car shows at the malls in Tegucigalpa. Bright, shiny red ones and green ones and yellow ones, even purple ones, no hint of the wrecks they become after a few turns on our “roads.” 

Plan D? That would be me, Dulick, till death do us part.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Las Vegas kids started regular classes at our school, Pedro P. Amaya. I have to say, it’s still exciting, those first days of a new school year, all the kids eager, neatly dressed in their new uniforms, the teachers hopeful and welcoming. Even though Chemo is not part of it this year, I like to go up there to sort of applaud all the other kids I know, including Marite, off to kindergarten.

But this school year began under something of a cloud when the father of principal Horacio Cruz died. It was weird; I saw someone pass by my house early one morning with a shovel, then another and another. That can mean only one thing, I’ve learned: they’re digging a grave. When they told me Horacio’s father had died, I just had to assume they meant GRAND-father, Santiago (“Chaguito”), the oldest guy in town at 106, who I visit with about three times a week as I pass his house and he calls me onto the porch. But no, they really meant Horacio’s father, Saul, Chaguito’s 73-year-old son. Does the unnaturalness of a parent burying a child still apply when the father is 106 and the son is 73? Well, Chaguito sure showed that age does not diminish the gouging loss of your “baby”; he just sat there by the coffin weeping, sobbing, moaning, inconsolable.

Horacio is one of our community’s most prominent pastors, but he invited his brother-in-law Pedro from Progreso to preach. It was a terrific sermon, the resurrection front and center. “God’s love is too great to be defeated by death! We do not die without the hope that God’s promises will be fulfilled!” He quoted one of those heavenly visions of swirling scenes of saints and angels in the Book of Revelation from the New Testament, and, from the Book of Job, lines featured prominently in Handel’s “Messiah”: “I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.”

A few days after the funeral, Chaguito had found his footing again, and waved me onto his porch. We had a nice, long hug and you could tell he was at peace. He had seen the Redeemer, too. 

Old, odd doña Clara Velasquez, 98, saw visions, too. For years she had been stroking and petting and kissing and singing lullabies to a baby doll that I guess she thought was “real.” Certainly real enough were the caresses she would bestow on you if you got within her reach. We should all be so “crazy”! Word spread that she was near death, so a big crowd gathered at the house. She was all shrunken up now, very tiny in a bed, one arm still waving weakly every now and then in the empty air, no doubt reaching for her baby. She was being tended to by her daughter Paola (“Paya”), ancient enough herself. Finally all was still, and the death ritual began, everyone quickly taking their places and performing their helpful duties without a word being exchanged. Padre Manuel came to say a Mass in the house. Not a word about the resurrection--or, for that matter, about Clara. Go figure. Well, he didn’t really know her.

If you want a daily dose of resurrection, you have to go to Alcoholics Anonymous. They cycle through it every 24 hours. Doenis, 22, is polite enough when sober, but his sarcasm cuts like a knife when he’s under the influence, which is a lot of the time. I kept inviting him to A.A. as the only answer to his manufactured excuses and his crocodile tears. When A.A. invited me to their Thursday meeting, featuring a little refreshment, this time Doenis accepted! We walked over there together but we were way early, and I began to doubt he would hang around. Indeed, he did disappear before the others arrived. But picture this. I’m such a “sleeper” that I dozed off as soon as they served up some rice pudding, and I woke up in my chair to the sound of Doenis’ voice. His confession, if you will, his testimony, his First Step. I listened for any “outs” or excuses, and there were none. And other members, especially an uncle of his, encouraged him and challenged him to keep going. Afterwards, Doenis told me how good he felt, how different he wanted to live now, how grateful he was. Unfortunately, as he had already told the Group, he was heading up to the mountains for a week or so, to work. So we’ll see what happens next. 

“Heliocobacter Pylori” is a deadly parasite that eats your stomach lining. But it looks, I guess, like a little helicopter. (Who names these things? Winnie the Pooh?) Dionis, Chemo’s cousin, was afflicted last year; so was Dionis’ mother Natalia, and her daughter-in-law Dania. The list is no doubt longer, given the conditions around here, though the insert in the “Pylori Pack” that cures it says they don’t yet know what causes it. How about--dirt-poorness? Few are diagnosed because the “exam” (a stool sample) costs 500 lempiras ($25) and the “Pack,” an intimidating cocktail of antibiotics and strippers and liners--80 pills in 10 days--the kill-or-cure regimen--costs 1000 lempiras ($50), and I’m about the only one who can “afford” it, a term I use rather loosely these days. 

So when Dora from Nueva Palmira came to my door with an order for the test from our Dr. Meme, I have to admit that I tried to “talk” her through it. It just seemed too much. Talk about parasites! But somehow an angel or someone touched my heart and I gave her the royal treatment, including accompanying her there and back, with extra moto-taxi rides to Nueva Palmira. I’d just been reading Pope Francis’ latest publication on “The Joy of the Gospel.” He’s got so many quotations in there about the poor, I swear he made some of them up! Like Doenis, I had to take that First Step, if I wanted to see the Redeemer’s very human face.

You know what? Beto sees the human face of God in everyone he meets--and he’s blind! When he gently reminded me that his birthday was coming up, I knew it was time for the “Beto Pack,” a delicious combo including one of Carlota’s great big fat cakes, cold soda, lots of guests, and some birthday songs. We crammed 8 kids into a moto-taxi from here to La Catorce, stopping at Jacagua on the way to get the cake, and Beto invited the neighbors. If, like Beto, you did not have the sense of sight, could you describe the cake’s candy colors in terms of the sense of taste? What does BLUE “taste” like? Well, I should save that for FACEBOOK.

Wishing you a timely Spring!

Love, Miguel