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

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2014

PASHTUNWALI

The new partnership of “The Beacon” and “St. Louis Public Radio News” kindly published my January “letter from Honduras”: 

http://news.stlpublicradio.org/post/letters-honduras-fires-destroy-and-cleanse

I thought I was a goner. NOT a “lone survivor.” Even Chemo was crying, sobbing at my bedside as I prayed for God’s mercy. But I wasn’t quite dead yet. I had had a dizzy spell, so light-headed, so disoriented I could only stand up by clinging to the wall, the office door, the table, another door, till I collapsed in my bed, guided there by Chemo. It was only 8:00 in the morning, and I thought I was having a stroke! 

We had returned the day before from a week in Tegucigalpa, and I had already eaten twice at Chemo’s grandma Natalia’s house, supper last night and breakfast this morning. After the dainties of the city, I thought I had gotten back to basics, yet the food maybe was a little...funny. Because when I struggled to sit up in my bed, with Chemo’s help, my head still spinning, thinking to take a couple aspirin (I heard that somewhere), I suddenly shuddered. Grabbing the wastebasket and dumping its contents on the floor, I threw up. Man, I threw up to beat the band, over and over, till I thought I was done, and then threw up some more. (Sorry to drag you through this!) I recognized the remnants of Natalia’s meals. I lay back down, scared to death; an hour later, I tried it again, sitting up, with the same result; and at least 2 or 3 more times, each time thinking I was “better,” but my body wasn’t letting me off the hook. Finally, my stomach registered “EMPTY” but shook me with a few more retches, just to be sure.

That’s when I asked Chemo to pray with me; that’s when he broke into those heart-rending sobs. Alerted by Chemo, Elvis and Dora were quickly on the case. Dora prepared me a potion, Elvis “massaged” me. I threw up the juice, and when Elvis, for his finishing move, reached under and around me and gave a sudden jerk! to get the “patibulum up front,” whatever the heck that move was, I thought he broke my back. I wiggled my toes and kept wiggling them, to be sure I wasn’t crippled. This was the first positive sign of the day: at least I would die a paraplegic!

Yet this was my “pashtunwali,” the native term for the care Marcus Lutrell received from his Afghan hosts after the Taliban had wiped out all his companions. Indeed, Dora later  prepared me a simple soup that did stay down and tasted so good. And Elvis kept everybody calm. Everyone was treating me with such lovingkindness. We all had theories on what was wrong with me, dizziness, vomiting.... Now don’t get ahead of me here, because maybe you have figured out something that I did not think of until Dr. Meme made a very welcome house call later in the afternoon and labeled it “vertigo.” I was...seasick. Jimmy Stewart flashed in my mind, climbing the bell tower in Alfred Hitchcock’s “Vertigo,” probably because I had just heard that critics voted it best movie ever. I had to smile, it was so simple. As the Scarecrow told Dorothy, I should have thought of it myself! But when you’re up to your eyeballs in your own spew, you lose perspective. 

Still, I knew I had to get a more thorough diagnosis from my cardiologist in Tegucigalpa, Dr. Bayardo Pagoada, who has degrees from Tokyo and Rome. I had not seen him since 2007, when I brought Chemo to him. With only a stethoscope, he quickly diagnosed the precarious condition of Chemo’s heart, but referred us to his colleague Dr. Karla Andino, a PEDIATRIC cardiologist. She hooked us up with the Brigada, and the rest is history. 

Once I adopted Chemo, I didn’t go back to Dr. Bayardo because I couldn’t afford to. I figured, every time I go he checks me out and says I’m OK, and then charges an arm and a leg for the visit, so I’ll wait till I’m sick, then I’ll go. I spent all my time and money on Chemo (and our extended family!) for the past seven years. Well, my near-death experience convinced me, now was the time! Of course, I can afford it even less now, but I sharpened up my credit cards and prayed Bank of America wouldn’t notice. 

The good doctor--and he is very good, so kind and professional, and with a light dusting now of gray hair, a fatherly figure--welcomed me back, and was so pleased with Chemo, twice the size since he saw him last, including a stubbly mustache. 

After two days of tests--chest X-ray, electrocardiogram, echocardiogram, blood work, etc.--he pronounced my heart “stable,” no different, really, from 2007, just a little larger due, no doubt, to my heavier weight; and my cholesterol was up. So I didn’t have a stroke, I probably won’t have one, it WAS the food, I was “normal,” and it only cost about $500 to find that out! Now, he did give Chemo a check-up, too, at no additional cost, and suggested an adjustment in his meds. As they say, some things money can’t buy.

When I went to make a new appointment for July, the young secretary Susana was wiping away tears. She had just gotten the news that her grandmother had died. I sympathized all I could, and the next day I dropped off a little book of “Prayers for Young Women” for her that I found at a religious bookstore. She of course had already gone to be with her family. 

As I said above, we had just been in Tegucigalpa only a week before this emergency visit. That trip was full of “business”: renewing my residency visa for another year, renewing my driver’s license (now including a “psychological” test!), dental check-ups for me and Chemo (look, ma! no cavities!), Mema’s birthday (64), and, best of all, Mema and Elio’s daughter Felixsa pronouncing her final vows as a nun after 17 years of study and sacrifice, most of it in Spain. 

The vow ceremony would be in the Basilica of Suyapa, the biggest church in Honduras, one of the biggest in the world, in fact, at a regularly scheduled Sunday Mass, January 12. As Elio joked, “We invited 1500 of our closest friends!”) But the whole crowd got involved, so outgoing, well-spoken, and self-effacing is Felixsa, lit up, you might say, by the Holy Spirit. We sang, we applauded, we dropped to our knees to pray for Felixsa’s fidelity to her vocation. You know, the colonia of Suyapa is the most dangerous in the whole city, so I only carried a handful of Lempiras, certainly not my brand-new ID or license or any credit cards--but I was not going to leave my camera behind at the hotel. I knew that the pictures by Felixsa’s brother Elio Jr.--a professional photographer--would be infinitely better than my own, but I wanted to “see” for myself. And it paid off, since I could give Elio and Mema copies when Chemo and I suddenly found ourselves back in Tegus for the Bayardo visit. 

Felixsa’s “missionary” work will be right here in Honduras, teaching, preaching, giving retreats, training other young sisters, tending to the needs of the poor. I’m already pestering Elio and Mema to get me into some of the events, a schedule they are more than happy to explore. 

My recovery was promising enough that I turned to Chemo and asked if he was ready for yet another trip, this time to Morazan for our annual “vacation” with Fermin and his family. “Let’s go now!” he pleads, meaning directly from Tegucigalpa. Tempting as that was, I knew we needed at least a day in Las Vegas to “freshen up” and pay some bills at the various “pulperias” where I have running tabs. 

So we were a few days behind schedule, but still in time for the 87th birthday of Maria’s father Antonio and the 20th birthday of Maria and Fermin’s son Eduard, who has become Chemo’s best friend. Both celebrations were based on the principle: all you can eat!

In “Lone Survivor” and in religious life, you see the power of love to transform ordinary people into heroes who transcend their earthly roots. Of course, “Lone Survivor” makes my little episode look like a bubble-bath, and Felixsa’s enthusiasm had me in tears, but you do see how heroic, too, are the ones who wait hopefully to assist and support those who swear their lives to serving others.

That’s where you come in. I’m sure no hero, but you sure are my “pashtunwali”! I

apologize for not chronicling my health crisis on FACEBOOK and Yahoo!, but I simply did not have the strength, and then when I did, well, let’s just say that all your prayers, good wishes, and kind thoughts had already been answered, even though you didn’t even know I was counting on you. Anonymous healing. Thank you forever.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2014

X-MAS MARKS THE SPOT

“The Beacon” held its nose and published my disagreeable report on the elections in Honduras. I hope that’s the last time I have to waste a whole CASA on politics!
https://www.stlbeacon.org/content/33900/voices_dulick_election_120213

In fact, “The Beacon” has joined St. Louis Public Radio News:
http://www.news.stlpublicradio.org

Christmas had us coming and going. And not just here in Honduras.

A week before Christmas, my sister Barb arrived home about 5:00 p.m., threw a big bag of Christmas presents and her even bigger purse on the couch, coaxed Jah the dog, blind and frail, out the door, and went for a walk. She returned to find her house lit up like a torch, in flames and smoke. Too shaken even to dial 911, she screamed it aloud, but the neighbors assured her they had already called. By the time a swarm of fire trucks arrived, it was already too late, so fast and furious was the blaze. In fact, things like her TV, computers, furniture, clothes didn’t just burn, they MELTED. A space heater with a thermostat might have been the culprit, but the house is old and every improvement project Barb would start got stalled by decayed and dangerous wiring.

About midnight, she texted me with the horrifying news, then added: “Well, I’ve been praying recently to find some way to simplify my life. Do you think God maybe misunderstood?” Even in a tragedy, she’s still Barb!

I wanted to drop everything and go up to St. Louis, though my last bank balance was $2.01 and my credit cards are stuffed tighter than a turkey, but Barb, longing for the time to sort things out, urged me to stay put, and just pray. At least one prayer had already been answered. Can you imagine if the fire had struck at night while Barb was asleep upstairs, or if she might have tried to put it out herself? A couple pet guinea pigs did not make it. “I keep thinking about those poor little guys,” Barb says. Thank God we’re not thinking about Barb for the same fate!

Her best friend Linda welcomed her to her apartment till the insurance company arranged rooms at a suite hotel (one that allowed dogs!). Our sister Nancy quickly joined her from Columbia, MO, and George, her favorite handyman, helped her pick through the rubble. Priceless photo albums were among the finds. And when her melted purse seemed a total loss, Barb’s friend Maria said, “Let’s cut it open.” Inside, like pearls in an oyster, were her wallet, credit cards, ID, license, etc., all perfectly intact.

I call Barb almost every day, and finally worked up enough courage to ask her if she had had any hopeful “signs” from our family in heaven. “Well...” Turns out our brothers’ ashes--John and Bob, who died last year--still in the plastic boxes from Ambruster Mortuary, had fallen off a shelf and fused together in one lump. You have to be flexible  to see why that’s “positive”!

But the saddest picture from the fire was the front door, ruined and gaping, its antique leaded glass exploded, the door that welcomed everyone and anyone, the door we joked about forever because the key or keys almost never worked, if you could even find them hidden on the porch, now a door to nowhere. When I mentioned Christmas Midnight Mass at College Church, I could see Barb’s smile even through the phone. Silent night, holy night. But yoga sessions with Nancy are just as spiritual.

The next step is an apartment that insurance will pay for. Until the house can be redone. A daunting task. And get this, it’s a designated “historical district,” so everything has to be approved by “the committee.” The simplest thing might be if the ever-expanding Washington University would snatch up the property, as it has other real estate in the neighborhood.

There's bridal showers, baby showers, has anyone ever heard of a fire shower…?

Meanwhile, here in Las Vegas, little Mariana Teresa, named by mom and dad Maricela and Juan Blas for our sister Mary Anne, who died in 2009, celebrated her fourth birthday. Can we take that as a “sign”? More life! even if Carlota accidentally shortened her name to “Maria Teresa” on the cake.

Actually, her nickname is even shorter, Marite. Her big sister Milena had a celebration, too, graduating in Arts & Letters from a college in El Progreso. Maricela and Juan Blas invited us (Chemo and me) to the event, which I took as a “sign” to enhance the celebration, just as I had promised! I love to see education given such a priority against all odds. The church gave Milena, who wants to be a doctor, a scholarship. So, busfare and such, and a big lunch with her brother Manuel and family, who live in Progreso, at the “world famous” Las Tejas restaurant (“Your Place for Meat”) were the least I could do!

Graduations in Honduras are even more solemn than in the States, so I almost fell  off my chair when “El Progreso’s Own” Victoria took the stage with a mini-concert of about 4 or 5 songs before they handed out the diplomas. It was as if Tina Turner showed up! “I never graduated from anything, but you kids are GREAT!” Most of the faculty sort of fidgeted, but when she got the music teacher up there with her for some wild moves, they brought down the house. I made a point of seeking out the Master of Ceremonies afterward to thank him for inviting her. He blushed.

We took advantage of the trip to El Progreso to see Teatro La Fragua’s signature production “Navidad Nuestra,” the Christmas story with a Honduran twist. They’ve been doing it for 30 years, but it’s as fresh, revolutionary, really, as Pope Francis’ latest call for the “Christian” church (you notice he doesn’t just say “Catholic” church) to return to its roots in poverty and service. Jack Warner, a Jesuit priest who started the Teatro, watches every performance as if it were the first; he must feel amazed to have at last a Pope who “gets it.” Maybe, just maybe, they can perform it for Francis when he visits Central America.

We got another invitation, this one from Carlos Ordonez, a young poet whose work I discovered in 2004 when he was just 20. His email address was inside and so I contacted him to congratulate him and invite him to Las Vegas. I never imagined he would accept, bringing two other poets with him. We had a “Noche Cultural” that included local poets of our own, especially Erlinda, and a tribute from Beto, who memorized one of Carlos’ poems that I taught him, since Beto is blind. Carlos was moved to tears. In fact, the theme of Carlos’ poetry, like his mentor Roberto Sosa is, you might say, the tears of the poor, as the title of his first book “Llanto Alrededor” (‘Grief Abiding’) suggests.

The new book would be launched in another “noche cultural” at the Cultural “Annex” of the Spanish embassy, no less, in Tegucigalpa. Carlos now makes films with his wife Ursula in Brasil, so this would be our only chance to see him till who knows when. The new book has the challenging title, “Disturbio,” prose-poems of pure imagery, words in a million colors. I suppose he is on the verge of international fame, but he greeted me and Chemo like family, and warmly introduced us to his mother and father as well as Ursula’s parents: “These are the friends I keep telling you about.” Chemo has watched Carlos’ documentary film about Brasil’s oldest poet, hardly an “action movie!” over and over. And Carlos also inscribed a copy of “Disturbio” to Angelica, who met him when he would pick us up for lunch at the Nanking Hotel, where she has her little candy stand out front.

The “Disturbance” of the title is our struggle to be ourselves, a meaningless pursuit without solidarity with the dispossessed.

Carlos’ vision comes from his tiny village Orocuina, folks like our own Celestino, who died a week before Christmas at the age of 99 (some say 100, some even more) in Paraiso, the “town between two rivers” that he founded with his wife Liandra next to Las Vegas. When I heard the news, I knew I had a great picture of him, but when I went searching for it, I was pleased to find it was one of the first pictures I took when I moved down here in 2003.

Here, Christmas Eve IS Christmas. That’s the tamales, that’s the visits, that’s the only Mass. So when I asked Godo, “Are we doing anything tomorrow?” he drew a blank. Then we remembered it was the finale of Celestino’s novenario. Perfect! Our Christ child would be a centenarian! The celebracion, some singing, some preaching, everyone a coffee and rolls, it was Paraiso’s Secret Santa. Martin, one of the grandchildren, said at one point, “I’ve been doing some figuring.” In his lifetime, Celestino and Liandra had 8 children (3 boys, 5 girls), 71 grandchildren, 241 great-grandchildren, 109 great-great-grandchildren, the latest Luis Fernando, born November 9. Abraham and Sarah, call your office! But even with this cloud of witnesses, Liandra grasped my hand as I was leaving. “Don’t stay away, I’m all alone now.”

May I say the same, to you. Stay close, in the New Year. Keep my sister even closer. Fires certainly do “simplify” things. At midnight January 1, we burned up 2013 in the form of a old dummy “ (‘Pichingo’) stuffed with firecrackers, at the soccer field. Bless you for giving us hope that 2014 will stay fresh all year!

P.S.: Let me add one more note from the November elections. Mel Zelaya, who still thinks his wife Xiomara won the presidency, accused another candidate Andres Pavon of selling his votes to the National Party candidate and official winner Juan Orlando Hernandez. Pavon politely asked Mel for proof, adding, “Lacking any forthcoming evidence, we must consider Mr. Zelaya’s accusations as ‘speculative’ in nature.” Have you ever heard a gentler accusation of “Liar!”?

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2013

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2013

FRAUD AT THE POLLS! 

THE BEACON did another superior make-over, of my November report:
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/33633/voices_dulick_hearts_111213

Sunday, November 24, 2013, was election day. I looked to Chemo as a bell-wether.

When we were in Tegucigalpa, Elio and Mema urged him to vote Liberal, singing the praises of Mauricio Villeda, the son of the best president Honduras ever had. Four years ago, when Mauricio was running with Elvin Santos, I called him a wimp and a zero. Well, he doesn’t have a chin, and he dresses like a nerd (stripes with plaids), but this year he looked like Lincoln. An honest man, even noble (he had quit on principle his role in Mel Zelaya’s administration years ago), he became the conscience of the election season. No one dared criticize him, as he admonished the rest of the field for their excesses, distortions, and lies. Elio and Mema come from the days when you could be arrested just for voting Liberal. They believe in the party, they love its traditions, and embody its outreach to the poor in justice and love. In fact, Elvin Santos had asked Elio to run for ‘diputado’ (representative to the Congress) with him, but Elio could not afford such exposure since he and Mema were still in hiding from the gangs threatening them with death if they didn’t pay “protection” money. Chemo listened and nodded and smiled.

In Morazan, Fermin and Maria urged Chemo to vote LIBRE, the breakaway Liberal party that sprang up from the ‘resistencia’ after the coup that ousted President Mel Zelaya in June of 2009. (A coup endorsed by his own Liberal party, so intolerable was his corruption.) Since, according to the Constitution, a president can only serve one term (a provision Mel wanted to erase as his mentor Hugo Chavez had done in Venezuela), Mel’s revenge was to run his wife Xiomara Castro this time as the candidate. The deception was transparent, but so deep and so unfulfilled is the longing of the Honduran poor for justice that they went through the looking-glass and gave their heart and soul to LIBRE. So when I asked Fermin, who is never deceived, why he was going with LIBRE, he said, with tears in his eyes, “Miguel, to save my life.”

Mel was always trash. In his “youth” he helped murder 14 human rights activists on his father’s hacienda Los Horcones in Olancho (June 25, 1975). His father Mel, Sr., served a perfunctory jail sentence for the crime before being “pardoned,” but it really was Mel, Jr.’s, work. Old Don Jose, who is still a simple day laborer now living here in Las Vegas, was a farmhand at Los Horcones. “The father was a saint, treated us right, always spent time with us; the son, he was bad news. That whole day, he was going back and forth, back and forth, with the killers in his pick-up.” They shot the “martyrs,” as they have come to be known, including  a couple priests and nuns, and then, to conceal the crime, they stuffed the bodies down a well and filled it with lime. How does such a holocaust get swept under the rug? When Mel was running for President in 2005, the opposition candidate (Pepe Lobo, now the current president, then a neighbor of Mel’s in Olancho), tried to make an issue of it; he mentioned it only once before Mel effectively shut him up. Publicly, Mel whined, “You’re upsetting my mother.” (Mel, Sr., was long dead.) Privately, one can only imagine what Mel had on Pepe to scare him into silence.

As president, Mel was corrupt; that’s nothing new here, for either party, but Mel took it to new heights. First of all, he stole the election, something no one wanted to say, least of all the U.S. State Department, after the coup, when the sing-along demanded that the “duly elected” President Zelaya be “restored” to power. During his administration, he sold us out for the massive money transfers of drug money from South to North via Honduras. Crime skyrocketed and gangs ran the cities. The biggest strikes and protests by the teachers union occurred during Mel’s term, and when Fermin learned from sources that Mel would order the police and military to shoot and kill protesters, Fermin himself had to plead with the teachers and their leadership to disperse and, in effect, surrender their demands. Fermin did it to save lives, but it put him in a terrible position, and that’s when he quit “politics,” forever he said.

So what brought him back? Poverty is not just not having enough money; it grinds the spirit into the dirt. When Mel tripled the minimum wage by executive order, businesses screamed foul, but the working poor rode a wave of prosperity they had never known before. Here, most salaries are tied to the minimum wage. A teacher’s pay, for example,
is calculated as a multiple of the minimum wage. “Miguel, Mel paid off our house, our car, he sent our kids to college, he set our table so no one goes hungry in this house.”  No one works harder than Fermin, so I should question his judgment? When you have a family to care for, you can live with certain contradictions.

Mel fooled me, too, in his generous, unrehearsed inauguration speech, a spontaneous tribute, it seemed to me at the time, to the hopes of the poor. But later, when he couldn’t even get the Our Father right (May God’s will be done in Heaven as it is here on earth, reversing Jesus’ words), I knew we were in for it.

Chemo nodded in agreement with Fermin, too. But closer to home, unmoved by principle or protest, and with buddies directly connected to the current conservative government who fixed Chemo up with a “special” ID card and other goodies, Chemo voted Azul (‘blue’), the color of the conservative National party.

And Blue won, with 36% of the vote. Mel and Xiomara’s LIBRE actually came in a close second (29%), with the honorable Liberal, Villeda, a gentleman’s third (21%). Now, you’d think that in a democracy, the winner should have to get at least 51%. If you applied these standards to grades in school, Chemo could have passed seventh grade!

Xiomara was leading in early returns, so she declared herself the winner, the “Presidenta,” and supporters here and on FACEBOOK just went crazy. Then reality set in, and Juan Orlando Martinez, the National Party candidate, “humbly” acknowledged the reports of the Supreme Tribunal of Elections that the trend in his favor was now “irreversible.” A pall descended on the beLIBRErs and cries of “fraud” arose among those who had hoped Honduras would finally govern itself with its eyes open.

But it’s not easy to get even a plurality in a three-way race, especially when your party began as mobs in the streets. If I may indulge in a conspiracy theory, this was the plan all along. That is, let the ‘resistencia’ run wild, including plenty of provocateurs to stir things up, discrediting their just cause, in effect forcing the movement to fold itself into the “system,” where it could be effectively neutered. In fact, after dodging the radicals’ rocks and, in return, bashing their brains in, would the police and military have recognized the “authority” of a Presidenta Xiomara? Then we would have had a real crisis!

So now what? Mel held a long, rambling “press conference” the day after the election, with many citations of fraud at the polls, only a tiny portion of which had been witnessed by over 700 “observers” from the U.N. and other international groups. “We might have to go back to the streets.” When a reporter asked if he was calling for another “insurrection,” Mel snapped back, “Hey, ‘Mister’--look! I’m using English!--‘Mister,’ don’t twist my words.” But, clearly, the biggest “news” at the press conference was the absence of Xiomara. If anyone still doubted that the biggest fraud at the polls was Mel himself, it was now plain for all to see. Mel’s lame excuse when questioned, “She’ll probably have her own press conference,” rang hollow. Fermin is at a loss. “Well, maybe, the streets.”

Did I say a three-way race? It was an eight-way race! And ironically, the real deal-breaker that made a true majority impossible was not LIBRE, but a party called PAC (Partido Anti-Corrupcion), led by the very popular sports announcer Salvador Nasralla, who also hosts a Sunday game show for teens that travels to a different city every week. You just don’t feel like you’re watching a soccer game unless he’s calling it, especially the national team as we move toward the World Cup. In such a macho culture, it’s funny to find him teased for being gay, which he good naturedly denies but which his unmarried status and preference for short-shorts does nothing to negate. But he’s always got a couple pretty girls in tow, you know.

It was hard to take him seriously, especially when he kept up his announcing gigs during  the campaign. But, in retrospect, with a fat 15%, it seems he activated the youth vote, who saw nothing but Charlie-Brown parents in the rest of the field. While the other splinter parties barely broke 1%, PAC elected 13 ‘diputados’ to the Congress, and even a couple mayors, including coming within a whisper of winning one of the biggest prizes of all, mayor of San Pedro Sula, the second biggest city in Honduras, called the “industrial capital” because of its prosperous sweatshops that employ so many young people. Suddenly, no more short-shorts, Salvador Nasralla is a statesman in a suit and tie. Just imagine if clean government could really become the norm in Honduras! Of course, for that to happen, we’d need a little help from the U.S.A., to dial down on its drug consumption...

The latest: After rumors surfaced that Mel took a swing at her for losing the election, Xiomara did finally make a perfunctory post-election appearance, to mouth a “clarification” Mel had already put out: “We did not use the word ‘fraud’; we’re just asking questions.” But a couple days later, LIBRE filed dozens of charges of fraud with the Tribunal. Meanwhile, right on cue, the rocks and bottles started flying, and the cops started beating, and anyone who wanted to could say, “I told you so.”

I am torn, in case that’s not already clear. Honduras needs radical reform, but Mel is unworthy of his faithful, and Xiomara should have been the first to dump him. Mel actually won one of LIBRE’s 39 seats in the new Congress, the first former president to even attempt such a thing. So he’s not going away.

I probably lash out at Mel partly to justify my own inaction, and this has been an usual CASA, so “political.” I know the whole world needs fixing, but I stay at ground level, where Manuel from Terrero Blanco needs a plate of food. As hard as it is to figure out how to help these poor folks right in front of me, any one of whom needs everything I have, I guess I would rather fight with myself than confront the “system.”

I know many folks here who have labored their whole life for justice, most of them motivated by the kind of Catholic faith that Pope Francis is finally taking mainstream. These folks have suffered beatings, imprisonment, and death, while criminals high and low profited from the carnage. One of these is Fermin’s father, Pedro. Another is my neighbor Kako, who organized the poorest voters from the surrounding villages to participate, in many cases for the first time, to give LIBRE its majority here.

The actual voting, at least in Las Vegas, is a sweet thing. From Chaguito, 106, to youngsters like Chemo, everybody gets along and helps one another. We even had a “prayer circle” for my friend Ruth Meyer from St. Louis, who came to Tegucigalpa with a special group of observers for the LGBT community, a persecuted minority in Honduras, as you can imagine.

It seems the government shut down the Internet to keep a lid on protests after the election. For the first time, one conservative president succeeds another, giving certain elements a sense of entitlement, I guess. Both major servers had “technical difficulties” for days on end. I’m squeezing this CASA through the worm-hole (I hope!) while I have the chance.

Even if I can’t communicate, please don’t forget about us!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2013

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2013

HAVE A HEART

“The Beacon” touches up my report, on my trip to St. Louis; ready for prime time!
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/33325/voices_dulick_letters_10_2113

‘Tis the Season! And what better gift than a healthy heart!

Helping Hands for Honduras (handsforhonduras.org) just finished up their 21st brigada, this time saving the lives of 33 youngsters in need of open-heart surgery. Chemo was in the first brigada back in September 2008. So I got his teachers’ permission to take him to Tegus for a check-up. (“Shouldn’t be a problem, since he doesn’t come to class anyway.” CHEMO!!) They were at the end of their three-week run; we got there as the last two two little kids were wheeled into Recovery. We put on garments and they let us see the kids and the absolutely beatific smiles of their mothers and fathers. And I showed off Chemo. “Look here! He had the same operation and now look at him! That’s just what will happen for you!” And Chemo, usually so “shy,” did his part, bestowing encouraging smiles.

I took pictures with Ron Roll and Alba, the founders of Helping Hands, and their daughters Nelly and Cynthia, who have played increasingly helpful roles with the kids. I didn’t realize how helpful till the next night, when a sort of “Birthday Party” was planned at the biggest McDonald’s in the capital for the kids and their families. Ron Roll said, “This is the first time we’ve done it this way, so we’ll see.” It was a fund-raiser. You bought tickets for a big sandwich (the McNifica) and somehow it rebounds to Helping Hands. Of course, someone paid for the families’ tickets, and I bought mine and Chemo’s. Now, you may be thinking, McDonald’s? for heart patients? That thought crossed my mind, too, especially when I was chatting with Junior, who was making balloon animals for the kids. He was so simple, so quiet, I thought he was “slow,” you know. I asked him if people were supposed to pay for the animals. “No, no, I just like to laugh.” It wasn’t till he slipped on the white coat of a medical student that I realized that I was the slow one! Nelly and Cynthia had asked him to participate! “But my girlfriend is sort of mad at me; she’s a nutritionist.”

Then the games began. I never for a minute thought Chemo would participate, but you can’t say no to Nelly and Cynthia, so he did the sack race, the “hot potato,” and the “Simon says.” I would have loved to have read his mind. Did he feel as sweet a connection to these kids as I hoped he might? I guess so.

Two of the nurses came from St. Louis, Children’s Hospital, to be exact. Maybe you know them: Elaine Fitzgerald and Yvonne Renick. Such a small world, such big hearts!

You can find more on FACEBOOK:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Helping-Hands-for-HondurasManos-Ayudando-a-Honduras/179803138717859

Our trip to Tegus coincided with the return from Spain of Elio and Mema’s daughter Felixsa, who was studying theology there for her missionary work as a nun. Her mission? Honduras, of course! She’s a member of an order that lives exclusively off donations. They are not even allowed to accept what you might call “corporate” contributions. So she arrived with one small suitcase. (“I had to leave all my books in Spain.”) She’d been gone so long, Chemo had never even met her. But we went out to a nearly deserted airport to meet her plane about 9:00 p.m. The little crowd that gathered looked like a rescue mission, but everyone had someone special they were waiting for. And Felixsa was ours.

She had told her parents that she would have to stay with her community, way at the other end of town, in the shadow of the big Suyapa church. But as soon as she got there, Mother Superior told her, “What are you doing here! You stay with your family for now!” Now, that’s the kind of religious obedience that makes sense!

Two nights later, having recovered more or less from “jet lag,” Felixsa invited us all over to Elio and Mema’s for Mass and a little party, her brother and two sisters and all the kids and in-laws. Padre Ovidio, a friend of the family for years and years, and just about the most engaging and dynamic priest you’re gonna find, had us so enthralled that even Chemo sang the hymns. Befitting Felixsa’s vow of poverty, the repast was basically pot-luck, we just shared what we had, and this family is so naturally generous that no one lacked for anything. I made her promise that we’d discuss theology at some future time; and I’m looking forward to it. She doesn’t need books! Oh, and she treated Chemo like she’d known him all her life.

Back on the home front, that is, in Las Vegas, we celebrated the second birthday of Chemo’s little cousin Albita. We got a cake almost as big as she is, and enough music to make her dance.

And we celebrated all our beloved departed, on November 1 and 2, first visiting and tending the graves of our “angelitos,” children who died in infancy, whose ranks swell by 2 or 3 a month, and then to pray for all our loved ones who are “at rest,” some young ones by violence, some old after a long life, and all those in between. The depths of feeling and grieving and pleading are undiminished by time or space, as I know myself, thinking of my brothers John and Bob who died last year.

Have you seen “Gravity”? I knew I had to see it with Chemo when I heard it was a father-son collaboration, and had a special role [spoiler alert!] for George Clooney, touching the “magical realism” of folks with names like Cuaron. And 3-D and only 90 minutes long. Chemo’s reactions were as fascinating as the movie itself. He may have thought it was all “true,” like the critic who excitedly asked the director, “What was it like to film in space?” (Rather than mock, Cuaron gently led them back to earth.)

And it is all true! You are my George Clooney, leading me home, wherever that is. And I still call to your kind attention the continuing needs of Erlinda, living still hopeful and confident of God’s mercies--and yours--without her beloved Guillermo.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEP / OCT 2013

ESTA ES SU CASA--ST. LOUIS SEP / OCT 2013

“DEAR CHILD OF HONDURAS”

THE BEACON did a lovely job of editing together my last two dispatches on the death of Guillermo and other events (such as Chemo marching in the Independence Day parade). A must-see!
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/32836/voices_dulick_guillermo_091813_

Last year, I made three trips to St. Louis for family emergencies, including the deaths of my brothers John and Bob. This year was, as the National League Champion St. Louis Cardinals like to say, a “Happy Flight!” An ecstasy from end to end, so much joy and grace, fabulous family time, great friends, eager students, gorgeous weather, and did I mention the bountiful food?

I scarcely had a minute to visit any schools last year, so this time I filled up my dance card. Jill Harris, a 1988 Parkway North grad, just celebrated with her class their 25th year reunion. “I’ve been teaching 19 years,” she mentions, and my mouth dropped. “That’s longer than I taught!” So she’s lapped me! She invited me to Hazelwood West Middle School, a big and beautiful place with wonderful kids to match. They had a million questions! And the kids collected 8 bags of clothes, and another teacher had a box of shoes. In the photos attached, you can see “my” kids in their new digs.

I made it up to Parkway North, where Melissa Pomerantz let me meet a couple of her classes, and guess what? One class was in the middle of “The Canterbury Tales,” a pilgrimage not unlike my life in Honduras, whose stories I try to tell with at least a bit of Chaucer’s celebration of our common humanity.

In fact, that is always my theme when I speak with students. Most Cardinals shirts are “MADE IN HONDURAS,” as are Parkway’s, St. Louis University’s, and lots more. And why? “Cheap labor!” the kids brightly answer. “But are some human beings worth less than others?” I ask. Honduras is as close as the clothes on your back. If you let the poor make your clothes, then let them touch your heart. In fact, “poverty,” which does not even appear in the kids’ textbooks, is best defined not by what folks DON’T have but by what we all share, our common humanity. I had to spend years in Honduras to appreciate that revelation, and I just have to hope that in a few minutes I can share that experience. Many of the kids already have a heart for the poor, and the pictures do most of the work. Although we never did get my “slideshow” to fully synch with the projectors, we improvised with 3 of my photobooks. I always tell Chemo’s story, which is my own as well, and the kids fall in love with him, too.

Parkway South had the theater ready for me during Academic Lab, and we had a big crowd, considering it was voluntary attendance. But they had been well prepared by their teachers, especially Jeanette Sipp-White and Julia Barnes with multiple handouts about the history, problems, and beauty of Honduras. My “presentation” was unique; the  Diversity Club sorted through questions submitted by the students, chose the best and then conducted a kind of press conference with me. They chose well, basically leading me from point to point. “What’s your favorite memory?” Watching Chemo head off to school, every day!

Wydown Middle School just finished its new building and it might as well be an extension of its neighbor Washington University, so impressive is its architecture. But its real strength is the uncompromising commitment of Debra Solomon Baker and the “team” of teachers to digging deep roots in our social responsibility. The kids had a page of points to note as I talked, but the letters they wrote--to Chemo and to “my” other kids--were totally optional. Let me quote just a few.

“Dear child of Honduras,
First off, I hope you know that we love you! When you look up at the moon at night, it’s the same one that I see. In the end, we are all human beings with a heart.”

“I wish every human being in the world a good life and a chance to be safe. I have never lived scared in my life. If it was up to me, I would make everybody’s life better.”

“I feel kind of bad to live a life of being spoiled. Seeing your life really inspired me to change my ways and to go out of my way to help people.”

“Te prometo que si pudiera hacer algo por ti, yo lo haria. Asi que desde aqui te mando un saludo para que recuerdes que lo que importa no es lo que tienes; lo que importa es la fe que tengas.”

Selvidge Middle School in the Rockwood District is always a surprise. And Julie Buehler likes it that way! The surprise this time was that Julie was the only who actually ran my photos as a slideshow. I kept staring at the screen, “How did you do that?” “I don’t know!” Conspiracy theory! We filled the room with another teacher’s students as well and a number of the eighth graders remembered me from a previous visit, so they had even more questions than usual, about Chemo. I admit it, I like to get past the “big” picture (the poverty, the violence, the corruption, the drugs, the this and the that) and tell the stories of Chemo, Guillermo and Erlinda, Chepito, Maricela....

When Teresa Jorgen and I went to southwest Missouri to visit her former neighbors Hildur and Andy, who moved to the family farm there, I felt right at home. It was like another, even greener version of my Las Vegas. “Is this heaven?” “No, it’s Flat.” Such friendly, pleasant, salt-of-the-earth folk, who had gathered for the auction of three barnsful of farm tools and implements, now that Grandma and Grandpa had passed on. I of course paid special attention to the foods, including schnitzel, all “hand-crafted” by Hildur, originally from Germany. A busy lemonade stand was staffed by daughter Selma and her friends, and they were making a sign: “Lemonade for Hondrurs 1$.” “Whatever we make here, Miguel, is for you,” Hildur explained. I knew she’d do something like that! Last year, she held a bake sale for Honduras, made all the cookies, cakes, and breads herself. So I asked her if I could try to sell Chepito’s drawings. People admired the art, but they came for the auction, they didn’t have extra funds, so I only sold four. I gave others to Selma and her friends. (There’s another 120, if you’re interested!)

OK, not everything about the visit was heavenly. I ran over my computer!  You see, I thought I had already put my backpack in the trunk of Teresa’s car when I started the engine and backed up. What was THAT? I grabbed the computer from the bag and, trembling like a leaf, started it up. Fortunately it’s a MacBook Pro in the solid aluminum shell. It went on! Everything was there, I even tried the Internet. It wasn’t till later that I noticed the hairline cracks all over the screen, multiplying even as I watched, and the dented bottom, among other things.

The Apple Store at West County was buzzing like a hajj, first day of the iPhone 5, but I fought my way to the Genius Bar, where they assessed the damages at $790, even with my AppleCare contract. (You can sure tell Steve Jobs is dead!) But I trusted in...God, I guess, and they sent it off to Texas. It was back in 48 hours, only (only!) $300. But, as my sister Barb, who is a computer genius herself, said, “Considering all the damage, Mike, you basically got a new computer for $300.” I love my sister!

I loved her best this time when she arranged a visit to our nephew Nick, the son of my late brother Bob. He’s in another rural Missouri town, Farmington, but this time it wasn’t heaven. Our destination was Farmington Correctional Center, where Nick is serving a six-year sentence. It used to be a state mental hospital; now, razor wire lines the old walls like tinsel, glistening in the sun. They have so many rules I could not take a picture, though Barb did get through in her flip-flops despite a warning on the wall. The “offenders,” as they’re called, sit in a green chair, all facing the same direction at tables for four in a large lunchroom, and the visitors are allowed a “light hug” arriving and departing, a 5-second kiss (“no open mouth”) for spouses. But there’s no limit on how much you can crank out of the vending machines, and Nick was hungry!

Nick, 25, looked great, and he sure smelled great, very clean! And he’s doing great, it seems. He’s in a program that sounds a lot like the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. Successful completion, which includes a substantial improvement in anger management as well as managing drug addiction, will take years off his sentence, along with reductions for “good behavior.” But when he’s “free,” he really has nowhere to go. Another nephew, my sister Nancy’s son Dan, who just graduated from Mizzou, is offering to get a place together. Nick could really use some good in his life!

Teresa’s nephew Bryan, 20, is a prisoner of a different sort, managing cerebral palsy. After an operation to straighten his legs, he started therapy at Ranken-Jordan. A fall bummed up his dad’s knee and a job at Maritz keeps his mom busy, so Teresa and I jumped in to take Bryan at 10:00 and pick him up at 4:00 every day. Just so you know how popular he is there, look at the video they made; Bryan appears in it at least three times, including the final, lingering shot.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k3ugjx2GJMU&feature=youtube_gdata_player

I had a sort of Parkway North re-union of former students from multiple years of my time  there, converging from the four points of the compass, one after another. Former teachers, too. An abundance I never had before. I wanted to “schedule” even more, and next time I will!

As soon as I got back to Honduras, Elio and Mema celebrated my birthday at our favorite Chinese restaurant in Tegucigalpa. Angelica was waiting for me, too, at her little “food truck” in front of the Nanking Hotel. She asked about each one of you! or at least so it seemed.

Upon my return to Las Vegas, I was greeted with...a rainbow! Now, that’s a good sign, don’t you think? It makes a good symbol of everyone here enjoying the new photobook, as well as the colorful variety of clothes and things that were donated in the States.

One shirt was a donation even before it got down here, from “Labor of Love,” a fundraiser run for Micah House, where kids are saved from the mean streets of Tegucigalpa. I asked one of the organizers, Jeanette Sipp-White at Parkway South, for a “Small,” because I didn’t want it for myself. I wanted it for Dennis, the autistic boy in nearby Paraiso. He loves to run!

It’s been 40 days since Guillermo died, an interval marked here by another celebracion. Erlinda, Guillermo’s widow (boy! does THAT sound strange!) spoke for all of us when she said it seems like yesterday. “But I don’t see him dead. Every time I think of him, I see him alive, here with me if I’m cooking or sewing or talking, anything, not dead.” She had a recent appointment of her own in Tegucigalpa for her diabetes, so she made a point of telling them about their negligence in Guillermo’s chemotherapy that killed him. And not just him. “Miguel, they all died.” Guillermo had been in a big room (a holding pen, it turns out) with about 20 other cancer patients at San Felipe Hospital. “Remember the man with one leg? He died. The young man who had a motorcycle? He died. The one next to Guillermo who kept kidding the nurses? He died.” She went through the list. Well, it’s a cancer ward, and there’s rarely anything resembling “early detection” here in Honduras, but, still, between the cancer and the chemo, they didn’t have a chance!

Now, how do I put this? Erlinda nervously asked me in private if more help were still possible. I am even more nervous, asking you! At least one dear friend in St. Louis raised the question on her own, and committed herself to a donation every paycheck for “Guillermo.” Friends were so generous with me in the States, but the challenge is still there, because the need is still there. I’m so sorry.

My heart filled up just thinking about seeing Chemo again, and he did not disappoint. “Where is it?” He meant the “official” jersey of the World Cup Honduras team that I promised him. They qualified the same night, at virtually the same minute, as the Cardinals went up on the Dodgers in L.A. for a Happy Flight to St. Louis. The screams and horns and blasts and caravans of fans outside the Nanking Hotel in Tegucigalpa seemed, in my mind, to be celebrating both events. Schools shut down the next day, anyone who could took the day off work, fast-food chains gave away Whoppers or whatever they sell, and stores had 50% off sales. So I got the shirt at the “exclusive” dealer in such merchandise, Diunsa. Oh my God, the place looked like the last minutes of the Titanic, jostling crowds dragging, carrying, throwing everything--mattresses, appliances, big boxes of things you only ever see at such sales, I tripped over someone’s life-size plastic reindeer for Christmas (almost knocked its damn antlers off!)--into the fray. Fortunately, the jersey sales had their own register, so I got out alive.

Or he meant the “extra” laptop I brought back from St. Louis. Somehow it had become inevitably his. Kathy Blundon, who teaches at Parkway West, gave me two of her gently used Apples. The newer model I gave to Lily, Elvis and Dora’s daughter who is teaching and studying in Tegucigalpa. A godsend! The older one I got spruced up by former student Adam Stirrat, tech genius enough to have been recognized by his grateful colleagues at Ladue High School as “Teacher of the Year.”

Or he meant the “tacos,” that is, soccer shoes I also got at 50% off. Now he looks like a pro.

So you see, he WAS happy to see me.

And I miss you already!

Love, Miguel

REPORTING FROM ST. LOUIS--SEPTEMBER 2013

REPORTING FROM ST. LOUIS 

I’m baaack! I’m here in the Lou till October 15, 2013:
at Teresa Jorgen’s house (731 Simmons Ave.  Kirkwood 63122 (314-966-5782);
my cell: 314-210-5303

No open house scheduled, just open arms!

In “GUILLERMO IS AN ANGEL NOW,” I told the story of Guillermo’s valiant final days. The funeral was just as brave, as celebratory as his son’s wedding, thanks mostly to his wife Erlinda. She kept everyone focused on our faith in the Resurrection. “We’re going to sing the whole way to the cemetery.” There was a huge crowd as we wended our way behind the pickup carrying the casket. When folks started wailing, and even the oldest son fainting dead away, Erlinda stood at the edge of the grave like a Joan of Arc, quietly repeating the meaning of this event: “We all must go the same route, death is part of life, but as Saint Paul teaches us, while we are alive, we live in the Lord, and when we die, we die in the Lord. We are always in God’s hands, and God will not abandon us but raise us up to eternal life.” She just kept talking in a normal tone of voice till all was calm and everyone could hear and understand. I hope you don’t imagine her a woman in denial, clinging to religion only to assuage unbearable pain. Hers is a strength born of a lifetime of fighting for herself, from the first years of their marriage when Guillermo was an abusive drunk and Erlinda finally learned to stand up for herself. You don’t raise 12 kids--6 boys and 6 girls--by faking it. She’s an artist, too, a poet, performing her works at public events like graduations. She instilled in her kids a sense of style and presence that makes them attentive to others‘ needs. She opened the path of grace and conversion for Guillermo, who thanked God and his wife with his years of service as a lay pastor in Paraiso. At the wake, his best friend Godo (Guillermo died in Godo’s arms) told the whole story of Guillermo’s spiritual development into a kind of prophet. Indeed, Erlinda, who commented every day in the novenario on the scripture readings, told how intense and intimate their final days together were. “They killed me, with the chemo, they killed me. I’m so sorry, my dear wife.” “I know, I know, my dear husband, and I’m here, I’m here.”

The next day, a valiant woman, Santos, one of Guillermo’s parishioners, as you might say, died in Paraiso. At 56, she was even younger than Guillermo, 65, but she succumbed to the complications of diabetes, like her sister Petrona, whose death in 2011 united the community as never before. Did she wait for Guillermo, to show her the way? Her funeral drew an even bigger crowd, now that we were all moving in the same direction already.

So two novenarios played out in tandem, 3 p.m. in Paraiso for Santos, 4:30 p.m. in Las Vegas, our “little flock,” as Jesus called his disciples, crossing back and forth across the bridge that connects our villages. Then the bridge collapsed! Partially, that is. Unrelenting rains and huge floating trunks of trees battered at least one concrete strut off its base and put a big wrinkle in the roadway. Folks ventured across anyway, first on foot, then motorcycles, and finally pickups and cars. No one wanted to be the first bus or heavy truck to tempt their fate, but then they brought in an enormous bulldozer with a shovel attached to pull apart the clog of debris, and nothing happened, no more cracking or collapsing, so I think we’ll be using this bridge a long time yet. After all, this bridge was built in 2005 to replace the bridge that Hurricane Mitch had downed back in 1998.

September 15 is Honduras Independence Day, and for the first time Chemo marched in the “peloton,” or formation. A block of 55 students trained and practiced all week under the direction of Profe Fefo, a military veteran himself, who imbues the kids with a sense of discipline and camaraderie. Now, I heard someone complain, “These are children, not soldiers, they shouldn’t be ‘militarized.’” OK, fair enough, but maybe soldiers should do more marching just for the fun of it, instead of a more dreadful purpose. In thanking Fefo, I teared up, reminding him that we first met when he was even younger than Chemo, and I was just so grateful that someone had enough faith in Chemo that he could accomplish the tricky routines. We borrowed the long-sleeved shirt from Dora’s son Tito, the dark glasses from her brother Oscar, the necktie was a relic from Pablito and Chepito’s First Communion; we had to buy the “boina,” or cap, and new shiny black shoes. Another nay-sayer says, “See, it’s just commerce, exploiting the poor.” Yes, of course, the poor we have with us always, but for one day, if your child can shine like a star, maybe the future looks brighter.

Topping off the novenarios, Lucas was born to MariEla, who is the daughter of MariCela, who is the daughter of Guillermo and Erlinda--the first great-grandchild of the family! “Lucas” was a nickname Guillermo was known by. Everybody doing fine. We thought, ah, too bad Guillermo did not live to see his bis-nieto; then we thought, no, he smoothed the way, Lucas to Lucas. We can’t stop smiling. You, too, I bet, for all the good you have done for this family!

Love, Miguel