ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2009

Peace Sells...But Who’s Buying?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2009

Masters of War

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2009

My City in Ruins

What a mess! If I smiled at the coup in Honduras, world reaction was hysterical. Suddenly, Honduran “democracy” had been violated, the “legitimately elected” president must be immediately “reinstated” to his “rightful position.” It’s like Honduras was Athens and Mel Zelaya our Pericles. News to me. This is the first time I remember human rights activists so respectful of Honduran institutions rather than demanding their immediate and radical reform.

Nobody’s smiling now.

I’ve been trying for years to get some attention for Honduras. Finally everybody notices us, and world opinion is unanimous: Honduras is a joke. We’re a throwback, an anomaly, a banana republic in the 21st century, a toxic backwater. We’re Sarah Palin.

Coup, shmoo, they lanced a boil! Now they’re telling us we have to put the pus back in its sac. But I guess even when your president is behaving like Captain Queeg--”Cuarta Urna, Cuarta Urna, that’s the ticket”--Micheletti’s little mutiny is an affront; you can’t just bundle the President up and cart him off to Costa Rica in his Spiderman pajamas and not expect to pay a price. And oh man, we are paying a price! The country is split like a watermelon dropped off the roof. And lookit, the coup was to stop Mel from electing himself president-for-life, but Micheletti has been in Congress 30 years, a diputado-for-life.

I am physically sick with fear at my country in ruins, though, like the father in “Life Is Beautiful,” I assure my son Chemo that it’s all a game, so he does not see how scared I really am. Most offended are countries that already have a “president-for-life,” like Venezuela’s Hugo Chavez, who was orchestrating Mel’s deconstruction of whatever bits of democracy Honduras did have. He is playing for keeps, but he is frustrated, too, even falling back to his default position: the CIA is behind the coup.

Oh, I hate this! I swear I cannot talk politics in these updates! I didn’t come here to be CNN. I’m just here because some first-century rabbi said sell all your possessions and give the money to the poor and then come follow me. Now I’m so confused. Just because every year since then has been numbered from his birth, that doesn’t necessarily mean he was right, does it? But where is his love? Where is his love of neighbor? Where is his love of enemies? Where is his shrinking from self-interest? I need you more than ever. My little robbery, the murder of Dr. Nelson--these local events have jumped up to a national scale. That is, if you can find them in the news anymore. When Michael Jackson died, Honduras was buried. Judging by the news coverage, Jesus is so over; the millennia will now be numbered BeforeMJ and AfterMJ....

Anyone who writes me, I try to agree with, and that’s because I’d rather have a friend than a fight. Let’s not even talk about the news media here--newspapers, TV, radio. Sold! A fog of disinformation thicker than soup. I thought I was misinformed till I saw the coverage you’re getting, including one account that referred to “ousted President Manuel Zelda.” Oy vay! I created my own fantasy world bigger than Battlestar Galactica, imagining that my friend in the State Department, Robert Schwartz, was forwarding my frantic pleas for help directly to Hillary Clinton. But, you know what, she did more for us than anyone else when she got Mel Zelaya and Roberto Micheletti, the “interim” president, to agree to talks moderated by Nobel Peace Prize winner Oscar Arias, president of Costa Rica. Of course, they didn’t even sit down together--damn that macho culture!--handing over the negotiations to “commissions” they formed, but it gave us a little hope, enough to sleep some nights, looking at our children, like Chemo, wondering if they’d ever forgive us for our “principles.”

Speaking of principals, that was the gut-wrencher for us parents: no classes. This burned my blisters. Holding kids hostage. The teachers unions--a Hydra with six heads--declared a national strike till Mel be restored. This is so ironic. We lost fifty days last year with strikes when the unions HATED Mel because thousands of teachers were unpaid. He threatened to fire them all two or three times They wanted him OUT then; now they want him back. The media are reporting helatious pay-offs to “persuade” the unions to see Mel’s point of view. I believe everything and nothing at this point. Whatever, the unions demand full compliance. In Las Vegas, where the teachers, God bless ‘em, have often quietly ignored national strikes, they’re scared to resist this “perfect storm.” Nevertheless, classes did resume here after two weeks, and they are trying to keep going, despite intense pressure to shut down. Everybody’s got a union--except kids. If we lose this school year with 4 months still to go, well, in Chemo’s case, it’ll just be about the 10th year of school he’s lost in his lifetime, since he never went to school till I adopted him.

When Mel attempted a re-entry a week after the coup with a plane and pilot borrowed from Hugo Chavez, the crowd at the airport was a powder-keg, pro and con, and Mel urged his partisans, “Please practice what I have always preached: non-violence.” (Gag me!) When he couldn’t land--the airstrip was dotted with army vehicles--he eventually buzzed off to Nicaragua, though not before at least one young protester was shot dead., Now he’s trying to Che his way back in, inciting violence and revolution, reminding us of our “constitutional right” to insurrection against an “usurper” government. That’ll work, teachers with yardsticks (and rocks) vs. the Army. Meanwhile, the “new” government is daily finding more evidence of Mel’s corruption, including unsealing indictments from a Florida court of a shake-down scheme for cellular phone rights involving millions of dollars in bribes; all the names were cronies of Mel. Mel’s chief of staff practically emptied the vaults at the national bank the day after the coup--40 million Lempiras--to spread the wealth around among any likely defectors. They caught that on tape! Then they noticed that no drug planes had been crashing since Mel left; these little prop planes, mostly from Venezuela--Hugo Chavez again!--were crashing at the rate of about one a week, overloaded with drugs or cash, leading to calculations that for every one that crashed--and I saw one myself, still smoldering, right by the side of the road when I last went to San Pedro Sula before the present crisis--at least a dozen were getting through, sailing the trade winds from south to north and right into your neighborhood. Now, such corruption could no doubt be found with any Honduran president--including the present one! (After all, SOMEBODY is paying for the tens of thousands of white tee-shirts that the marchers for “Peace and Democracy” are wearing. And I just found out that Micheletti owns all the Burger Kings in Honduras.) It’s just that this time the “authorities” have the leisure of unimpeded investigation.

On Friday, June 24, Mel thought he was Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon, as he stepped into Honduras across the Nicaragua border. More like Sid Caesar in a pratfall--or Frank Burns in that “MASH” episode, taunting Hawkeye: “See, I can step in, I can step out, nyaah, nyaah.” The poor guy, he just wants to see his family, who have been under watch ever since his ouster. He supposed the Army would run to embrace him as their Fearless Leader, but the troops just stayed put. In fact, they even stepped back some 50 yards, under orders to avoid any confrontation. Some rumors say their loyalty is also being purchased at a pretty price. It is a special disgrace to test the conscience of a soldier. Even John the Baptist was gentle: “Just don’t scare people, and be content with your pay.” Both “presidents” have much to answer for.

Oscar Arias presented a beautiful Peace Plan of 12 points (sort of a 12-step recovery program for those drunk on power), and the world is praying for its acceptance. It would return Mel to the presidency but with his...wings clipped. The same Head of State, but in a smaller hat. As of this writing, Mel’s border pantomime continues; now he’s talking about forming “militias” and hiding in the hills to plan raids like Tom Sawyer’s Gang. He’s managed to insult Hillary Clinton, who wants to see him in Washington: “If she wants to talk to me, she can send someone here.” Used to be when someone offends a lady, you’d punch them in the nose. Let’s see if Obama in his “mom jeans” steps up to the plate. Meanwhile, the State Department is upping the pressure on Micheletti, cutting millions in aid, shutting down the U.S. military base here, and revoking diplomatic visas. Micheletti says, “That’s fine, we’re not going to Disney World anyway.” (I’m paraphrasing.) As my friend Elvis says, “Like talking to a rock.” Yet, Obama’s celebrated “cool” may save the day--nothing extreme, just playing out the line till the big fish bites. I hope it’s soon.

When Norman Mailer searched for a metaphor to describe the Vietnam war, he turned to the strongest language he could find: “We are burning the body of Christ in Vietnam.” Today, may I say, Honduras is crucified between two thieves. Pray for our rising.

There are signs of hope. As poet Anne Sexton once wrote, “I eat it like bread.”

Our neighbor Marito returned after nine months in San Felipe Hospital in Tegucigalpa, recovering from some weird stroke that turned his muscles to jelly. His homecoming--along with his mother Ana, who stayed with him the entire time--was treated like a re-brith. He still does physical therapy, but it is a miracle to see him walking and talking like a kid again.

We celebrated the “regular” birthdays I guess you could call them of little Miguel Angel and his big brother Juan Jose, sons of Maricela and Juan Blas. Their birthdays fall in the same week, so one year we celebrate one, the next year the other. So far, they have not gone on strike protesting a “birthday-cake gap.”

Everyday on my way to Jacinto’s store to get the day’s “menu” for our spaghetti dinners, I pass the house of one of the poorest ladies in town, Ines, who’s taking care of two tiny grandkids, Jefferson and Helen. I thought they were twins for the longest time. They’re not even siblings! Anyway, I get them a little treat at Jacinto’s every day--a juice, some rolls, a bag of chips, cookies--and drop it off as I walk back. Very soon we are going to give them a birthday party, another twofer, OK? but one of Carolina’s enormous cakes is bigger than both of them.

When Pablo Medina, 50, suddenly died--and he died during an operation in El Progreso, another sign of how fortunate Chemo was to get world-class doctors for his open-heart surgery--we of course were stunned and saddened. But his funeral gave our community an opportunity to gather as one, forgetting any divisions between “Melistas” and “Michelettistas.” Pablo was the sweetest guy, just as humble as milk; a delegado (lay minister), he dedicated his life to the education of the poorest of the poor, the remnants of Indian tribes scattered in the mountains. One of his friends called him the “Apostle to the Poor.” That’s a title even his namesake, the apostle St. Paul, would have coveted.

When I heard that Mel’s partisans were blocking access to hospitals in Tegucigalpa--that’s a winning tactic, huh? sacrificing the sick on the altar of your arrogance--I called Ron Roll of Helping Hands because I knew another Brigada of heart surgeons was supposed to be in town, and he had urged Chemo and me to come for a little show-and-tell. I guess even these protesters’ conscience was pricked, because, said Ron, “Oh, it’s nothing, we just walked right in.” So I said to Chemo, “We’re going to Tegus!” I figured if these wonderful doctors and nurses could brave the crisis, leaving behind their own families, their own children, in the United States, to come for the poor kids of Honduras, we could be brave, too. Lord knows, I would never endanger Chemo, but it seemed somehow reasonable. He’d miss school, but we had to go.

And we went, Monday, July 27, our first venture into the belly of the beast since the crisis began. It was an ugly arriving--burning tires, hateful graffiti, crowds of marchers, streets blocked. I thought, O my God, what have I done? We entrusted ourselves to our favorite taxi driver, Roberto, who always meets the bus from Victoria; it took him an hour and a half (for a trip that usually takes twenty minutes), but he got us to the Nanking Hotel, weaving his way through every back street and cut-off and alley to Angelica’s waiting arms by her candy stand in front of the Hotel. I gave Roberto more than twice what he asked for, acknowledging that no one else would have risked so much for us.

When I called Elio and Mema, another blessed surprise. They invited us to the Catholic Women’s League meeting that evening at the Maya Hotel, just a few blocks from the Nanking. These monthly meetings are open to the public, and they get the best speakers around, this time Jorge Prado from Guatemala. His theme, tempered for the times, was reconciliation and it had us all in tears--even Chemo, who, incredibly, paid attention to every word, and clapped along with the songs (and made short work of the snacks provided as well!). He had all these very proper ladies--and their husbands--holding hands, holding shoulders, and praying deep for peace, our eyes closed and hearts poured out.

You see? There was the love we were looking for. And it primed the pump for the next day, when we went to Seguros Hospital to meet the Brigada. You know what? There IS a union for kids, and his name is Ron Roll. In his unique and altogether lovable blend of English and Spanish, Ron bursts out as soon as he sees Chemo. “Chemo! [mis-pronounced like chemo-therapy] Estás great, honey!” His wife Alba was even more excited, she grabbed everyone around and told them, “This is Chemo [she’s native Honduran, so “Shay-mo”], he was one of our first.” And you know, it struck me--he WAS a pioneer, the very first Brigada back in September. And what’s more, I realized just how special was Ron and Alba’s love; you see, Ron had told us to come about 2 in the afternoon, after the surgeons were finished for the day. Well, back in September, Chemo’s operation did not start till 2, and he was the very last child operated on. I’m thinking he was a very special add-on, as it were, thanks to Ron’s persistence. I wanted to call Ron “Honey,” too! And Dr. Karla, Chemo’s original doctor, gave him his checkup, including a fresh echocardiogram. There’s the love! There’s the kind of love that will save this country yet. And to highlight its gift even more, at least 6 other brigadas (for plastic surgery, cleft palates, burn victims, ear problems, etc.) that come every year have canceled their annual visits, thanks to the dancing monkey in a mustache (Mel) and the “Gorilla” (Micheletti), whose only surgical skills are cutting themselves a bigger piece of the pie.

I mentioned to Alba that it looks like Chemo’s sister Goya (or Rosa), 22, has the same heart ailment as Chemo, but there are no brigadas for adults; she says, “Wait right here.” She comes back with Dr. Christian (!) Gilbert, from Memphis. He says they are returning in November, and “We’ll fit her in.” Can you believe it? Matching scars!

In fact, Rosa (let me just call her Rosa from now on) was our next stop, because we had been telling Chemo’s mother Rufina for months that we would come for her birthday July 30--and we would pick up Rosa and brother Marcos on the way, in Tocoa.

On the way? Omigod! It took us eleven hours on the “express” bus, just to get to Rosa’s, where we spent the night. It’s a big, comfortable bus, but even so, I’m surprised we didn’t meet the Space Shuttle coming the other way. It’s convenient because it’s one bus all the way, and all on paved highways, but that means it’s the long way, cutting a big half-circle from Tegucigalpa and around the country, passing through virtually every major city. And that was the fear--would there be marchers blocking the roads? There were blockages, but it was for construction, though the running joke was, at every sudden stop, “Oh, no, it’s a strike!” That got old real fast....

Rosa looks sick, that sort of “traviata” look, flushed and fatal. I think in her we can see what Chemo might have looked like if he had reached her age without his operation. She was scheduled for an echocardiogram a couple times already--at a clinic two hours away in La Ceiba--but the doctor, apparently the only cardiologist within a thousand square miles, could not get there from San Pedro Sula due to strikes and marches, and he only comes on Saturdays. Do you see, dear friends, how maybe having two competing presidents is not necessarily our biggest concern here, even though it’s got the rest of the world throwing hissy fits?

The next day, Thursday, July 30, we all went to Bonito Oriental for Rufina’s birthday, that is, Chemo, his sister Rosa and her 16-month old baby Tonio, and Chemo’s little brother Marcos. Now, Marcos is still taller than Chemo, but Chemo is catching up. Since his operation, Chemo has grown a lot. Once a head taller, Marcos, 12, is just an inch or so beyond Chemo, about to turn 15.

Fidel, Rufina’s husband, was waiting for us in town. First thing we did was buy a birthday cake, and Fidel even got us a ride to the house. Now, in previous visits, we had to climb a mountain for an hour and a half to reach our destination; but they’ve moved! They live on the flat earth now, just outside of town. It’s a lovely little house, of solid concrete block, right by the river, breezy, shady, and lots of water pressure. (I took a shower--outside, mind you--that I never wanted to end.) But it doesn’t have lights--yet. Fidel’s patron, Don Cruz, 91 years old, basically got his sons to build it for them, and it’s his home, too. Two of the sons dropped by, and they are very loyal to dad. I gave Fidel some cash to expedite the installation of the electricity. But it really wasn’t much of a problem, except for going to bed at 7:30....

Rufina enjoyed her party, though she had to cook her own birthday dinner, with Rosa’s help, and Marcos and Chemo played in the river. I chatted with Don Cruz; this guy has personally lived through about half of Honduras’s history, so I asked him about the present crisis. He starts, “When I was about 14, in 1932”--Good night nurse! the man’s a Wikipedia!--”all I remember is war...and now we’re there again.” Will this ancient Moses ever get to the Promised Land?

Let’s back up. Before Chemo and I started this country-crossing crusade, there was just enough time to keep another promise I had made, to Pablito and Chepito, to visit their dad Leon again, still serving time in the Yoro Penitentiary, a year and a half after hacking at Nazario with a machete in a drunken brawl. So we went, with Irene their mom, on a Saturday. Leon seems more “at home” now, as if maybe he is actually a little reformed. He did not harp on his innocence and the injustice of it all. (Though it surely is unjust--Madoff will be out before Leon, wanna bet?) He and Irene snuck off for a conjugal visit, at least I assume it was conjugal, since they came back so fast--a conversation would have lasted longer. And then appeared the boys’ true motive for the trip; Leon gave each of them a weighted fishing net that the prisoners make to sell. It’s sad to think he bribes his own kids, though I have to say the distance between dad and sons has been good for the boys. And of course, I gave him money, more than he even asked for. I had to do that, too. You know, think of Jesus Christ, the original Half-Blood Prince--a villain to some, a sacrifice for all--so who am I to call a man a prisoner, just because he’s in a jail?

I’ll tell you who SHOULD be in jail, Levi Selly, and I don’t even know him! But I was checking my banking online one day and I saw that ol’ Levi had transferred himself almost a thousand dollars of my money! Identity theft! Can you believe it? My sister Barb always warned me, if you’re on wireless, anyone (anyone with a heart of stone) can access all your stuff. After about five hours on the phone, most of it on hold, passed from one “associate” to another till I made it all the way into the Deathly Hallows, I actually got the money back. How about that! I got a bailout! I just hope Levi Selly gave his ill-gotten gains to the poor of Honduras, because that’s where my money--which is mostly YOUR money--is supposed to go. I apologize for almost losing your donations.

I’ve had to pause my reading of the Interlinear Greek New Testament. I lost the book! I left it at a bus stop in Tocoa. Now, who’s gonna read it? I was up to Ephesians. I had just 300 more pages to go. But don’t worry, I’ve already ordered another one from Amazon.com, and it’s “New!” Even more Greek! Even more Interlinear! I guess I’ll have to internalize it till then.

Well, Rosa just got her echo--she needs a pace-maker! There was that scary word again that marked Chemo’s first report, “severa.” severe. In her case, a severe dilation of the valvular ring “mitral,” which I’ll have to look up. She looked a little scared when I told her it meant surgery, but it’s a heck of a lot easier than Chemo’s full open-heart excavation, right? I will share the results with Dr. Christian Gilbert from the Brigada, and see what he says. I don’t think any of the kids got pace-makers...he’ll have to pick one up at Radio Shack, I guess!

Rosa headed back to Tocoa, along with her husband Tonio and Marcos, who had come along to La Ceiba, and Chemo and I are on a bus to Progreso. We’ll keep a-goin’ till we finally get back home to Las Vegas....

But wherever we are, I know where the love is now--wherever YOU are.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2009

Sopa de mentiras

I thought the earthquake was bad. Now I’m living in a coup! I KNOW this made the news in the U.S. I confess I do not know how to behave or what to think, this being my first “Rangoon” experience. You can follow the updates as well as I can, latched onto the Internet from my “bunker” in Las Vegas, where I am huddled with Chemo, far from the madding crowd--I hope.

President Mel Zelaya was ousted Sunday, June 28, surprised in his pajamas by the army and de-planed in Costa Rica, the last act in a comedy of errors as Mel tried to impose a special election to force changes in the Constitution, in particular, his re-election. (Presidents are limited by law to a single, four-year term.) He gussied it up as “people power” and called it a “consultation”--”I’m just asking the people a question, can’t I ask a question?”--but the handwriting was on the wall, and, although there are ways to rewrite the Constitution, this “Cuarta Urna” (Fourth Ballot), as Mel called it, was declared unconstitutional, illegal, and fraudulent by the Supreme Court, the Supreme Electoral Tribunal, the Congress, even the Attorney General! As well as Mel’s supposed allies in his own party, including the Liberal candidate for president Elvin Santos. The last straw was when Mel fired the head of the armed forces for refusing to “guard and protect” the election. It’s a real dilemma for a soldier, is it not, whether to execute an illegal order from the Commander in Chief. The general resigned, along with the heads of the navy and air force, rather than obey, and was on his way home, “my head high,” when the news came that the Congress had refused his resignation and reinstated him. So something had to give. Turns out it was Mel’s big sombrero, and the head under it.

You could see this coming. About a month ago, Mel spontaneously called for prayer at some gathering promoting the Cuarta Urna, and he forgot the words to the “Lord’s Prayer,” including the fatal reversal, “Thy will be done...pause...in Heaven as it is on Earth.” A very revealing slip. He should have had a Teleprompter!

I’m making jokes, I guess, and that’ll probably be my last words when they drag me to the gallows: “I thought it was funny.” But, believe me, it’s nervous laughter. I was all set to go to Tegucigalpa this week--I’m, like, totally skinned, money-wise, till I can get my pension--but now I have no idea if the banks will be opening, the buses running, protesters shooting--or being shot. Hugo Chavez wants a war, and has pledged his Venezuelan troops for the effort.

Meanwhile, Roberto Micheletti, the president of the congress, was sworn in as President, to “unanimous” cheers from the members. That is the constitutional line of succession, so he’s urging the world not to see this as a “coup.” The President flouted the law, we accepted his “letter of resignation” (this is the weakest link in the plot, a pretty obvious fake), and the government continues intact. Micheletti swears he has no ambition except to fill out the final months of this presidential term and guarantee the election of the new president in November. No constitutional convention, thank you. Of course, this is the guy who twisted and turned the constitution like a pretzel so he could run for president in the primaries last year (he squeezed through a loophole provided by the Supreme Court to “interpret” a provision that forbade the president of the congress from running for any other office). He lost in the primaries to Elvin Santos. But now Micheletti is president--without a single vote cast! Like the guy told “Jake” (Jack Nicholson) at the end of that classic movie, “It’s Chinatown.” So say a prayer, send some good wishes, for this tiny “democracy.”

Now, where were we...?

Last month’s CASA was so horrible, I’d be surprised if anyone opens another one. But as hard as it was for you to read, it was ten times harder to write. I forced myself, just to make a tribute to these lost souls. It gave me nightmares.

And the beat, that is to say, the beatings, go on. goes on. June 2, ten guys attacked Orlando in his store in Victoria, an attempted kidnaping--on the theory you can get a lot more money for a release than a robbery. They pistol-whipped Orlando and threatened his wife Elena. Now, these are great people. Orlando is gregarious, funny, and big--and everybody loves him. He basically got our popular mayor elected with his vigorous campaigning. He’s ALWAYS on the phone. He sells just about anything in his big store, and carries on an even bigger trade in hardware and building supplies. Anything I didn’t get for my house at Reyes’ store, I got at Orlando’s. He told the gang, “Hey, do what you want with me, but let my customers go, they’re not doing anything.” And they did--big mistake! The customers immediately alerted the police, and the neighbors, and within moments the place was surrounded with an armed citizenry. Two of the gang were fell in a hail of bullets right in the store, and six others that took off at the first sign of trouble, were hunted down like dogs by vigilantes in surrounding villages within an hour or two and killed in cold blood. Two lucky ones were captured alive, by the police.

Well, Victoria was on the news, “the sleepy little town that rose as one in defense of a favorite son,” heroes of the heartland, as it were. Newspapers, TV, for a week. We were like the Alamo or something. In Las Vegas, Padre Jaime and Padre Chicho, both of whom had Masses for us that week, put things in, shall we say, the Christian perspective. This was not “justice,” “glory,” “heroism,” or “righteousness.” This was murder. OK, maybe the two guys killed in the store--self-defense--but revenge and blood even when the trapped gangsters were giving up, that’s murder. You could see the congregation, which had bought the news version of our claims, sort of squirming, but I sensed that we all eventually came around--to taking our faith seriously, even when it felt so good to strike back. Padre Jaime was especially effective, since his style is dialog, asking questions, reaching our own conclusions. By the time he was finished, we had been reborn.

But the rule of thumb is an eye for an eye, “just like Jesus said,” quoted someone. So the families and friends of the dead set out to even the score. Victoria responded by deputizing half the population and setting a 7:00 p.m. curfew. Rumors flew like North Korean missiles. “There’s 40 men on the bridge, shooting at anyone trying to cross into town!” “The two escaped, and they’re heading straight for Las Vegas!” We locked our doors at noon on that one--turns out it was two out-of-towners coming for their sister’s funeral in Sabana del Blanco. They almost got their heads “blowed off.” I was sure I was a goner. I called Fermin in Morazan to ask him to take Chemo in if I got killed, or, like Tom Sawyer’s Gang, “ransomed to death.”

Ever since Dr. Nelson’s murder, I’ve been closing up the house by 8:00 p.m., and leaving the porch light and roof lights on all night, and closing all the doors, which is bad enough, but Chemo keeps closing the windows, too, which is suffocating. (I open them as soon as he’s asleep.) I do hate to see him even more afraid than I am.

Perhaps you read or saw something about the OAS (Organization of American States) summit held in San Pedro Sula June 1st through 3rd. The newspapers trumpeted it as a time to “showcase” San Pedro. Well, the earthquake put a crimp in the proceedings, collapsing one of the major bridges into the city, but the real fault was a hidden agenda that let slip the announced theme of “No violencia,” strategies to curb the plague of violence, in favor of a kiss-up to Cuba, to re-join the OAS that had unanimously kicked it out decades ago when Castro came to power. Fidel had already announced, in predictable terms, his total disinterest in such an invitation, which would include an apology for the “mistake,” mind you, and reiterated his contempt for the OAS, “a puny puppet of the imperio,” the empire, that is, the United States. What the heck? Fidel has become Dickens’ Miss Havisham, still dressed for a wedding decades after being jilted, the cake all rotted and infested. I mean, Castro’s got Obama in the White House and he’s still holding out! But our president, Mel Zelaya, welcomed such comments and elaborated on them--and he was hosting the summit! (He also bragged about the Cuarta Urna he was planning, which had already been declared null and void by every authority that had a say about it.) Things were so unstable that Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, who arrived amidst smiles and good wishes, was not even provided a forum for her major policy speech (well, they said, how about midnight?), and she left grim-faced--and then she broke her arm! Probably wrestling a staffer.

I just hope it wasn’t Robert Schwartz, a Parkway North grad now working for the State Department as Assistant Summit Coordinator. Actually, they did a great job preparing for the OAS summit, and based on their work, State could make the best of the situation and issue a satisfied report. Robert and I had our own summit at the Copantl Hotel in San Pedro, where he invited me for lunch. I felt pretty special, not because this was the closest I’d ever get to Hillary Clinton, but because Robert is such a good friend. Actually, if you know Robert, you have to love his deadpan sense of humor. In our recent correspondence, however, I noticed he never took the bait, but then at lunch he explained to me, as a State Department employee, he can’t joke about anything, especially in an e-mail. So, the rest of our conversation is strictly off the record. I can neither confirm nor deny....

“You know, if you don’t have kids, you’re not THAT busy.” I was just comparing my life B.C. and A.C., before Chemo and after Chemo. When I was in St. Louis in April, Brian Marston and his wife Amanda treated me to Zia’s on The Hill, and we took their brilliant one-year-old Milo along. We had a nice meal and all, and we went back to their house and just sort of collapsed. We just stared at each other, till I finally said that line, wondering if I’d ever dare put it in a CASA, lest I offend. They voted yes, definitely. Even one kid, and you’re zonked. And I’m a “single parent”! It’s not just the constant washing, and cleaning, and cooking, and picking up, and watching and worrying and coming and going and cajoling and correcting and helping with homework--it’s the responsibility, your life is on hold for this one (or more!) little animal to be formed into a human person, and a child of God, with no guidebook and no guarantee of any success. Romis, nicknamed Gordito, who lives down the street, just got his 16-year-old cousin Areni pregnant--and everybody knows about it! Romis is 17, with a dad in the States who gives him anything, including a motorcycle.

Thank God Chemo isn’t THAT spoiled. But Chemo’s almost 15. That’s where my time goes. That’s what keeps you busy. I’m still re-reading the New Testament, but I only manage two chapters a day, and I’m looking for loopholes.

And you go to your kid’s games, right? I went along to Mango one Sunday, on the other side of the mountain, all the way to the lake, two pickups full of kids, the “little ones”--Chemo’s team, and the “big ones,” the larger teens. I told people I had been to Mango before, thirty years ago, but I was wrong. In the first place, the road, I would have remembered this road, an hour-long bucket of rocks, looked as if no one had been there in thirty years. I do not know how we didn’t blow all eight tires on our two trucks. I assumed it would be cooler there--mountains and all, you know. Wrong again. It was hotter than Las Vegas! Someone said, “The lake.” Of course. I’m from St. Louis, the confluence of two rivers, I should have known. The soccer field was right by the lake, looked like a green steam bath. Anyway, they played, the little ones first, and they won 4-0. Chemo did not score, but he’s everyone’s favorite player, it seems. “Go, Chemo!” I hope it’s because he tries so hard, and not just because of his awkward, Barney Rubble run on his short legs. His buddy “Control” did score. Hector got that nickname because he is so cool and imperturbable, focused and unflappable. When I saw a local parent sporting an enormous pistol in his belt, I thought, maybe we better not win both games. And we didn’t: the big teens lost, 2-1. We were so wrung out by the time we got home, I couldn’t imagine anyone getting up for school the next day. The next time the kids were scheduled to play, home games in Las Vegas, the little ones from El Zapote didn’t show; they’d heard of the Mango massacre. So much for sportsmanship. I could have told them, it was a fluke....

Chemo and I made a quick trip to Tegucigalpa early in June, for another dentist appointment. He had only one little cavity this time, and they cleaned his teeth. The wonderful Dr. Juan Handal, who runs the private clinic, told them not to charge us. He says I’m a “missionary.” He’s a saint! So, since we saved some money there, I supposed I could afford glasses--for Chemo. A lovely technician at Optica Popular checked him out, and you know what, I was just thrilled Chemo knew the letters he could see! (He did mistake V for U, but who doesn’t?) Of course, like everyone who examines him, she kept asking him to open his eyes wide--something his Noonan’s Syndrome makes impossible. And a very patient young woman helped Chemo pick frames, finally settling on--by golly--the most practical, brown plastic ones with a fixed bridge. She just as patiently explained, “The machine’s broken,” so they couldn’t make the glasses before we left town.

We had to hurry back, you see, for Helen’s 10th birthday. She’s the handicapped daughter of Maricela and Juan Blas, and she’s been excited about her party for a month. Maricela got her a cute pink outfit, and, just by coincidence, I guess, Carolina decorated her cake in pink icing. Which reminds me....

“A child is made of clouds.” I heard that somewhere. Sometimes storm clouds. Every child is a “loaner,” especially in my case with Chemo, who made me a father at 13 (his age, not mine!). And whatever transformation occurs in the child, from womb to worry, it’s nothing compared to the changes wrought (wrung!) in the father and mother. Chemo is actually reading now; somehow he crossed a line from ignorance to insight--like Helen Keller’s “waa-ter”--and I crossed a line with him, from prayer to prayer.

In Tegucigalpa, Chemo and I did make time for a visit to Elio and Mema’s new house, a pretty, sort of cookie-cutter place in a new, walled, gated, secure subdivision. They can only barely enjoy it, since they are still on some extortionist’s “death list” that makes a public life impossible. Mema is still so sad. “Miguel, I don’t sleep at all.” Elio is beside himself with concern for her. Their daughter and son-in-law live right across the street, but it’s still hard. So when they invited us over, it gave them their first chance in five months to have guests in their own place. Mema made “sopa de mentiras,” soup of lies--lies, “because it has no meat!” she explained. The simplest, most delicious soup you ever had, I swear! Grated onions, a little avocado, grated cheese, little noodles, couple other ingredients. Mema says, “We just moved in, we don’t have a stove or anything,” just a hotplate. But we ate like kings. Elio made sure we had some tasty French bread (a specialty in their own store, when they still had it) for dipping.

Honduras is serving a sopa de mentiras these days. I just hope it turns out to be Mema’s recipe... For your friendship, I have hope for Chemo and all the little wandering clouds of Honduras.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2009

EARTHQUAKE REPORT: It's the hurricane season, I didn't know it was the earthquake season! It woke me up, the house shaking like a tin can. It seemed to go on forever. 7.1 on the Richter scale. The boys slept right through it. But we're all OK!  Check it out:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090528/ap_on_re_la_am_ca/lt_honduras_earthquake

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2009 

The emperor of ice-cream

It seems I must withdraw some of my previous comments about the serendipity of death. The Prince of this world--the one poet Wallace Stevens called "the emperor of ice-cream"--once cast out, still has many loyal lieutenants, inciting a plague of mis-rule.

My sister Mary Anne's finale was a dire struggle in its last hours, but her consolation was the presence of family--and God. The beauty of her funeral transcended our poor limitations who prepared it. It seemed to come "from above." And the sprays of Holy Water on her casket at the grave blessed us all. 

These are everlasting memories of faith and love, and I hope you share them.

But there is an undertow that will not let us stand. Phone lines are jammed on Mother's Day--my last night in St. Louis--so I waited till late to call Dora. She didn't sound right. "Nelson's just been shot," an

d Elvis went to investigate. The electricity was out in town, it was raining, the cliche dark and stormy night. I immediately called Elvis' cell. "Miguel, Nelson is dead." A moment's hope that he might live, ripped out in the time it took to dial a phone. This is the Doctor Nelson,

not the coffee Nelson, as I supposed for a second when Dora first spoke. Remember how I used to joke about him--that anytime you saw him he'd launch into a doomsday scenario: "I just saw three patients with the same thing, and they all died within a week." This time he was right--he met his own apocalypse. Shot once in the stomach with a sort of zip gun that only carries one bullet, he managed to get to a neighbor's, where he died in a chair, crying, "Mi familia, mi familia!" Lacho, who runs a little eatery here, says the wound was not that deep; he could have sucked out the bullet and Nelson would have survived. Well, who knows?

"Mi familia." When I got ba

ck to Las Vegas a few days later, I told Nelson's wife Liliana, looking gaunt and flat, that I was so sorry I wasn't there. "I wasn't here, either." She and Nelson had sort of been separated for a while, Liliana living in San Pedro Sula, with two of their children, teenagers, a boy, Nelson, Jr., and a girl, Yvonne, a godchild of mine who shares my October 12 birthday. (We always exchanged presents and invited each other to our parties.) Only Elgar, who fancies himself a gangbanger, was at the house that night--and Sulema, the wife of Marlin (Elvis' brother run down by a taxi in New York City), who was picking up some extra cash cooking and cleaning for Nelson. With only one bullet, the thief spared them, locking them in a bedroom while he took care of Nelson. Nelson was never at a loss for words. I can only imagine the encounter.

The shot is fired, the thief escapes, Sulema and Elgar get out of the room, Sulema runs home to Elvis' house, where she's been staying with her children since Marlin's death, with the terrible report; Elvis heads out into the night--and I call Dora. Dramatic enough for a stupid summer movie, but drenched in real terror. 

Elgar, 19, has been a common troublemaker around Las Vegas for  awhile, including marking gang-signs on the walls of the church, yanking out crosses in the cemetery, strutting around with his peeps, bothering little kids and stuff. He painted S!KAR!ØS in giant letters (that is, SICARIOS, 'assassins') on the back of their house. He's taunted me and graffitied my house, too, but when I saw him at Nelson's he looked almost old. I hugged him--and he hugged back. I guess he found out a gang is not a game.

And so began the novenario, nine days of prayer for the dead. Incongruous in Nelson's case, since he never went to church (except for Yvonne's baptism, when he glowed with such pride) and usually mocked religion. He lived right next to a little evangelical church, and when they'd get all hepped up, hosannahing and clapping 

and singing, he'd crank up his TV to drown them out. I had to laugh! But he was right, you know--he had a patient once that had to get to the hospital and Nelson asked the pastor for help. "But...he's not a member of our church!" That sealed it for Nelson. The hell with 'em!

Incongruous, too, no doubt that his son Osman is a priest in Rome! Somehow he found his way all the way from Las Vegas to the Vatican. He came immediately, too, and conclude the novenario with a special Mass and one more vigil. But, you know, a doctor is about as close to Jesus as you can get. Oh, Nelson might be dropping cigaret ash on your wound, shirtless, and cursing a blue streak, but he had almost miraculous diagnostic powers with nothing more than his hand and eye to serve as X-ray, blood test, ultrasound, EKG, MRI, not to mention that even at his age--and he was 56, they tell me--he was the best, hardest hitting, hustlingest soccer player in town. He'd run those "kids" ragged. I miss him more than I ever knew. I took him so much for granted, I can't even find a recent picture of him. 

You know, Nelson was originally from El Salvador, a refugee of the bloody civil war there in the 80s when government-sponsored death squads were systematically assassinating anyone who might be thinking for themselves, such as 

Archbishop Romero in 1980 and the Jesuit faculty at their university in 1989. "Salvador," savior, I guess that's what Nelson was for us, after his fashion; and here a death-squad of one finally caught up with him. 

If they'd kill Nelson, they'd kill anyone. Or everyone, as seems to be the plan. On April 6, one month after Elvis's brother Marlin was run down and killed by a taxi in New York City (see the April CASA), his uncle Don Tomas was run down by a motorcycle and killed in San Pedro Sula. I didn't even think such a thing was possible! I've got a whole new feeling about motorcycles now, namely, sheer terror. Typical of Don Tomas, he was on a mission of mercy, getting medicine for his daughter. I loved this man! He was the first person to help me with building my house. Back in July of 2003 I was out just looking at the remains of the previous house on my lot, and he happened by. "What's wrong?" "Well, I don't know how I'm going to clean up this mess." He came back in 5 minutes with a wheelbarrow and a shovel and got to work, never expecting a dime. Pretty soon Ery, who had a special love for Tomas, his uncle, got busy, too. Then another friend or two. And so began my home, built by hand. 

Then, just like that, he was gone. Again, the caravan; again, bringing back the body, again the wailing and the gnas

hing of teeth. Again, Yuya--this was her brother now, Marlin was her son--lost her mind; again Dona Julia--this was her son, Marlin was her grandson--almost died a dozen times. Five of his 6 sons are in the States, including Tomasito, our little mascot in the early days, so it was doubly hard for them, unable to return. It made the news, though, including a photo of Don 

Tomas at the morgue. Lovely.  

My faith in the sweet orderliness of death now in ruins, our only hope was Holy Week, the festival of hope and salvation, and passover, like the song Martin Luther King loved to sing about God "who can make a way out of no way." Every day was a trial, till we finally got to Good Friday, and the dramatized Way of the Cross the teens had 

prepared, winding through the town, just broke my heart--that is, broke it open. When we gathered in the church afterwards, I could hardly contain my tears when Chepito, who never goes to church anymore, finally rose and joined the procession to kiss the Cross. 

Padre Jaime had something special for the Easter Vigil Saturday night. He b

asically invented another procession that is not part of the usual ritual at all,  this time from the town across the river, Paraiso, to the church in Las Vegas, with candles and songs--it took an hour, it was so...solemn! But as he had said, "We've got plenty of time--it's a vigil!" And, indeed the Easter Mass did not actually start till just after midnight, the earliest possible minute for the resurrection. So I was as pretty well patched up, I guess, but I still felt a little empty when I had to head off for St. Louis without finishing Don Tomas' novenario. But I wanted to be brave, if that's the right word, for my sister Mary Anne, who died the day after I arrived in the States. That story you already know.

The same day as Nelson's murder--Mother's Day--Elvis' nephew Will, 21, was gunned down in his neighborhood in San Pedro Sula, his gift for his mother under his arm. The damn hoods shook his hand, and kidded him, "You think you're a lawyer or something?" because Will, who 

often visited us here in Las Vegas, most recently, of course, for his uncle Marlin's funeral a

nd then for his great, was a university student, a stylish, good-looking kid, striking enough that he landed a small speaking role in a recent movie. Then they shot him 5 times in the back a

s he turned away. It's a game, don't you see? He lived a few days, but I guess you can't suck out 5 bullets, and he died. Elvis went to San Pedro. I sort of wanted to go, too,  but even he did not stay for the funeral. I guess I know what it was like, pure hell.  In their fear, they couldn't even have the wake at the house, because, as Jochi, another brother of Elvis, said, "They want more carne."  That is, more meat, more dead meat. Like his great-uncle Don Tomas, Will's story made the papers, under the headline, "Wave of Violence: 13 Murders in 24 Hours," so Will had plenty of company. 

If you live in St. Louis, you no doubt heard about Will's counterpart there, the good young man murdered at his family's barbeque stand. Dead meat. I had supper with his Normandy Junior High teacher Mike Clay (Parkway North 2002) the night before. This link may still be active: 

http://www.stltoday.com/stltoday/news/stories.nsf/stlouiscitycounty/story/A9A54B345EB94C07862575B30055EE5F?OpenDocument

Some people think "global warming" is a priority, when the real pollutant is indifference to human life. 

Somewhere in there came the news that Roger Cruz--nicknamed Pato ("Duck") because he sort of looked like a duck, someone thought, I guess--had been cut in half by a train (lengt

hwise! if that's not too graphic a detail for you) at the Mexican

 border. Some gangstas threw him on the tracks, I guess because he couldn't answer them fast enough. He was a hapless youth, at least a little mentally retarded; he'd repeat words over and over. The last thing we remembered here was "milpa, milpa, milpa." He was going to the States and get money to buy a milpa, a cornfield. 

Not everyone gets killed. Some just get slapped, hard. Don Jose's wife Marcia left him, and took all the kids, except Uladislao,

 who wouldn't go. (Or as Uladislao actually told me, through his tears, "She didn't want me.") Now, mind you, Don Jose's an old 

guy, tough as nails, and known to lift a few. So it may be that Marcia was fed up, maybe even abused, but whatever the truth is, Don Jose fell to pieces. He went searching for his kids, first to Victoria, where rumors surfaced that they'd gone on to Minas de Oro, about 20 or 30 miles away. But where, exactly? Don Jose came back to Las Vegas to plan his rescue. A couple days later, word came the two youngest boys, Fila, 10, and Rodrigo, 5, had WALKED from Minas to Victoria and were waiting for their daddy. I can't believe they didn't get a ride at least part of the way, but they said no--another summer movie in the making. Fila and Rigo knew where the 3 girls were, so Don Jose got a court order to reclaim the rest of his kids, but when the police car showed up, the girls got scared and wouldn't go. Then came Holy Week, when no one does anything; the next attempt, this time with Don Jose, the police car got stuck in the mud. So the saga continues. Meanwhile, Uladislao has become a nightly sleepover--he and Chemo are inseparable, especially in their sleep!--and Don Jose and Fila and Rigo arrive for dinner every night. I love it--I'm Marcia!

Speaking of dinner, it's taken a year, but Chemo is finally in love with my spaghetti again. It was his last meal a year ago before falling sick to some vicious infection that almost killed him. (If you recall, he had a fever as hot as the sun, including dozens of tiny little strokes, and spent a week in the hospital--all this BEFORE his heart operation!) He threw it all up that night, and for quite a while he wouldn't go near his favorite dish. He only wanted...beans! But I was patient, and of course as far as the rest of the crew I feed was concerned, "More for the rest of us!" But something just clicked recently and he wants seconds, thirds, and breakfast, if there are leftovers. 

OK, to review, if you're scoring at home. Elvis lost his brother Marlin in March, his uncle Tomas in April, his nephew Will in May--and his grandfather Faustino last winter, the only one to die of natural causes. Because there's more! Just now, Elvis came over  to tell me their daughter Lily, 17, had been "assaulted" in Tegucigalpa. Of course, your jaw drops, but here 'assault' is not rape (that's 'violacion'). She was robbed of her cellular phone, along with everyone else on the bus, on her way to the National School of Music, where she is finishing her third and last year. She said she remained perfectly calm, as a gang of four youths waving guns made their haul, and no one was hurt. This time....! 

A catalog of catastrophe, but Life had a vote or two as well. Angelita, Don Tomas' great-niece, had her baby, a little girl that she wanted to name fo

r her mother Nolvia, but her "boyfriend" wouldn't let her. We didn't see the little thing till they came from San Pedro for Holy Week, and I loaned Angelita a fan, just so the baby could breathe in the heat! 

And Dr. Karla, Chemo's pediatrician-cardiologist, had her baby--she was very pregnant when we saw her in January--a little brother for her her little daughter. Meanwhile, another brigada of heart surgeons came to Tegucigalpa, and Ron Roll was very eager for Chemo to come for a visit, but we couldn't get away, with all this stuff going on. Maybe the next time. Chemo is very eager to go to Tegus, even though his next appointment will be with the dentist!

"Miguel, the guy who killed Nelson is the same one who robbed you." Namely, Fredito, a sort of piggish-looking galumph, the local drug dealer, marijuana, even cocaine. Lacho seems to know these things, he's been threatened enough ("But now they know I have a gun.") And I'm suppose he's right. The night of March 31st, I was "assaulted" in my house, not with a zip-gun but with a machete. Guy bursts in the back door just as I was heading over to Elvis' house to ask him something. "Give me all the money! All the money!" He had the crudest head mask and the rustiest machete I'd ever seen. My first thought was, which Freddy sequel is this? (I know, I should have thought, which Jason sequel, or which Halloween sequel, but I wasn't thinking

 clearly!) Scared half to death, but acting on Elio Flores' advice--stay calm, talk politely, reassuringly--I took out my wallet repeating, "Yes, yes, all the money." I took out the bills and handed them to him, looking and listening for some identifying clue but thinking, Hell, I'm not even going to remember what color his shirt is! Indeed, I didn't think it was Fredito; my memory was of a tall and skinny teen. Shows you my powers of observation! I was shocked he didn't grab the wallet, but then he hustled us into the kids' room, nicking Chemo along the way. I forgot to say Chemo was there, and so was Laito (Uladislao), and they said afterwards it was definitely Fredito. I thought for sure he'd ransack the place, but he just ran out into the night. Apparently he had been waiting for his chance; unbeknownst to me, Elvis had just left his house to go to his mother's. 

He got about 30 dollars, a lot less than he was hoping for, I'm sure. What he didn't know was I had almost 200 dollars in a couple secret compartments of my wallet. Then I really did think it was a joke, a joke on him. But in a couple minutes I almost expected him to come back--with a gun!--and really make me give him ALL THE MONEY. My maternal and paternal instincts were roused by that nicking of Chemo--though it didn't even break the skin--because, as I have related before, Chemo saw his father die a bloody death, and now he's even more scared. I shudder to think what I will do in defense of my son.... Meanwhile, we're closing up early around here. 

Folks think I have a lot of money. But that's because they see me giving it away. Somehow I give away twice my pension every month, and yet I never seem to quite run out. I can't explain it exactly, but, for example, even though I practically was

 undercover in St. Louis last month--what with the death of my sister and the funeral delayed two weeks till her body arrived from California and her sons and husband made travel plans, leaving me with barely a week for much more visiting--no time even for a lovely Open House--still, friends were astonishingly generous--and not just with money, but with their time, their presence, their prayers and good wishes, beautiful cards and heartfelt emails, home-cooked meals, the works! What can I say? I feel like Fr. Costello at the College Church in St. Louis when about 20 kids were making their First Communion. He was just trying to tell them how much God loves them. And he started to cry. He said, "I know I'm crying, but it's OK, it's not hurting me, in fact, it's making me feel wonderful." The stories I tell are simply my attempt to turn the anonymous poor into your personal friends. I hope you feel wonderful, too!

Chemo scored a goal in his little-league soccer game. I had just asked my sister Mary Anne, who coached the Conquistadors in 1986, for a sign of her continuing presence. And Chemo just got his latest report card, high 80s and 90s--"gol!!" Meanwhile, that cross-kisser Chepito survived a near-expulsion at school for getting rather publicly drunk while I was gone. He and Pablito are passing fourth grade!  

So I'm feeling wonderful. I just might enjoy some ice-cream!

Love, Miguel