ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2015

JE SUIS NANGUI

I felt a twinge of deja vu as we walked past Ramon Rosa park in El Progreso after Nangui’s team Honduras-Progreso beat Marathon 3-1. “That’s where it all began, all those years ago.” And then it hit me, I’m with the same family that began it! Wow! Thirty-seven years collapsed into a single moment. 

You see, my first time in Honduras, in 1977, I was getting my shoes shined twice a day by the ‘lustrabotas’ in the park, just to practice my Spanish. Julio, about 10 years old, seemed to be the leader of the little squad. Through him, I met his family, including his sister Santa, who eventually grew up to become the mother of Jorge, nicknamed Nangui, now at 28 years old the star of the Honduras-Progreso soccer team, taking the league by storm in their first year of professional play. 

I guess sort of the way J.K. Rowling says all 7 installments of “Harry Potter” hit her all at once, the whole history flashed before my eyes in an instant, including Julio’s violent death in the streets of El Progreso in 1989, just when his future looked brightest. Overcome, I grasped Santa’s hand. She looked at me, like, What the heck is the matter with you! “I was just thinking.” Then we proceeded to the corner where Nangui’s wife Marta has a stand, about 15 of us family and friends, for baleadas, to celebrate the victory that solidified Honduras-Progreso’s first-place status. 

This was our second game in a week. We went to San Pedro Sula the previous Saturday for the first game of the new season, facing a strong team named “Vida.” 

The evening in San Pedro was not promising. The old stadium looked more like a latrine than a sports facility. A rainy day had left the unkempt field so muddy that after a while you could barely tell which team was which. Huddled in the mist and cold, we were a mere handful of fans, basically just the 40 or so that could fit on a bus from Progreso provided by the team. 

But the team came from behind for a thrilling 3-2 victory. Calling a play, even our head coach Wilmer Cruz slipped in the mud, and was helped up by a Vida player, a nice gesture. And among the small crowd was the most important observer of all, Jorge Pinto, the new head coach of the ‘seleccion,’ the Honduras national team that hopes to compete in the next World Cup, Russia 2018. Sort of like Whitey Herzog, from what I can tell, he likes players that really hustle! So naturally his attention was drawn to Nangui, who, according to La Prensa, is “un escurridizo para los defensores,” because he speeds through defenders like a buzz saw! Pinto came to their next game, too, the one we attended in El Progreso, where the overflow crowd of almost 2000 had to impress him too. The next day, Nangui was on Pinto’s list of about 30 players to try out for the ‘seleccion.’ And after three days of drills, Nangui made the team!

I can’t assume you are a big fan of international soccer, but you might get a chance to see Nangui in action when the ‘seleccion’ plays in the United States in the coming months. I’ll let you know the details as soon as I hear. 

What more can I say? Sorry for gushing like this, but it’s just so phenomenal. From dirt poor to world class. Nangui grew up in a house the very definition of a SHACK. His mom Santa and dad Jorge both swear like sailors, but somehow Nangui remains soft-spoken and a gentleman, engaging the media like a pro. After a game, when he’s gone full-tilt and thrown himself around like rag doll, he cleans up and joins us at his wife Marta’s stand for baleadas. I was about to say, “win or lose,” but Honduras-Progreso has never lost at home! Then he might come back to the house for awhile, while I snap a few pictures. My favorite image of him is, later, just walking down the street into the dark, alone, to re-join Marta to help pack up her stand for the night. 

In a special moment, Honduras-Progreso visited Hogar Suyapa, a beautiful children’s home/orphanage that directed me back in 2007 to a very special person, Judge Wendy Padilla, to arrange my adoption of Chemo. You know what, why don’t you just go ahead and “Like” the team!

https://www.facebook.com/Club.Deportivo.Honduras.De.El.Progreso

In between Nangui’s games, Chemo and I “vacationed” in Morazan for a week with Fermin and Maria and the kids. We try to do this every January, before school starts again in February. Fermin showed me the new light he had just installed in the front room, a fat fluorescent globe replacing a tiny neon tube that had lasted since they moved into the house 20 years ago! It looked somehow...strange. Indeed, the next morning, when we flipped it on, it short-circuited! Fermin spent the whole  day in the crawlspace between the ceiling and the roof sorting things out. I was scared to death he’d electrocute himself, so I started praying a very quiet rosary. Maria, more practical, went to get some help from the local utility, ENEE. Two guys showed up--with tools!--and climbed the nearest pole and cut and twisted and connected wires till power was restored. Fermin emerged covered with 20 years of dirt, dust, and grime from head to foot, smeared with sweat. When I lifted my camera, he said, “No, Miguel! No pictures! We don’t want to remember this!” 

But we did have some experiences worth remembering, including Eduard’s 21st birthday. We splurged at the Supermercado Marquez to get all the fixin’s for a big barbecue, including three kinds of meat: chorizo, chicken, and strips of beef. Maria, with help from her sister Arlin and sister-in-law Concha, made a big batch of chimol (a delicious relish) and other side dishes; and we got everyone’s favorite party cake, “tres leches.” I asked Eduard if he was inviting any friends. “Just one,” he smiled. His girlfriend, Evelin! I had to pay for everything, not because I HAD to, but because I wanted to, for all their goodness to me and Chemo. 

And Chemo and I “had” to go to Tegucigalpa for Mema’s birthday! We took her and Elio to Mirawa for lunch, the best Chinese in the city, along with their son Elio, Jr., and two grandsons. I love seeing Mema’s smile! No one is more grateful for even the smallest gift. The “official” birthday party in the evening started with Mass at the little church by their house, where Padre Ovidio, a lifelong friend, was also overcome with gratitude for Mema’s wonderful life. Then the feast, and the dancing, and the singing. 

Birthdays are so precious, not least because not everybody gets one. Yessica, the girlfriend of Chemo’s younger brother Markitos, lost their baby in a miscarriage, about 3 months gestation. Markitos was not home with her when it happened; he was visiting his and Chemo’s mother Rufina, at the other end of the country in Santa Barbara. But Yessica’s mother was there to help her through the experience. Markitos arrived the next day, and Chemo and I the day after that. Cautiously, I invited them to Pizza Hut, as usual; and it seemed to help restore some hope and some smiles. And with a million and a half “pilgrims” expected to visit the Basilica very close to Yessica and Markitos’ barrio in Tegucigalpa for the biggest feast of the year, Our Lady of Suyapa, they should be able to get some needed income when Yessica’s mother sets up a food booth and Markitos runs odd jobs. 

We almost thought maybe Beto of La Catorce, the blind young man we love and enjoy, would not make it to his next birthday when we heard he was hit by a motorcycle. It was dark (not a good time to be on the road, but Beto explains he was doing a favor for a friend); the motorcycle was “off,” so Beto couldn’t hear it (this I don’t get); and the “driver” was a TEACHER in the La Catorce school and he was DRUNK! (OK, THAT explains it). Fortunately, Beto got only a cut on his forehead (4 stitches) and other scrapes and bruises but nothing too serious. Can you imagine! 

Well, I can imagine YOU have things to do, so let me sign off right now!

But not without thanking you again for your lovingkindness,

Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2015

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2015

A THRILL OF HOPE

If you’re pressed for time, skip this and read Mac McAuliffe’s blog. He’s offering a series of sketches from his visit here last October. I wish I could do it half as well!

http://macmca55.wordpress.com

NOTE: COMING TO YOU ‘LIVE’ FROM THE KIWI PASTELERIA IN YORO! 

Internet in Las Vegas is practically dead. Most of the time, I can’t read your e-mails, I can’t do FACEBOOK, I can’t see the score of a game. But, while looking for birthday cakes (see details below!), I found a little bakery in Yoro (2 hours by bus) that has Free Wireless! That’s where I am right now!!

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Christmas day is usually pretty quiet around here. All the festivities--the tamales, the soccer finals, the big Mass, as well as the binge drinking--happen on Christmas Eve. 

But this Christmas was even more still than usual, as we mourned the passing of Richard Cruz, 75. Frail, yes, but no one expected such a rapid descent in a single day, including his son Dennis, who had just arrived with his wife and their two little girls from San Pedro Sula a couple days before. And yet the timing was perfect, if one can say such a thing, 

So early Christmas morning, I went over to the house, at the farthest end of town, where the road disappears into the woods, prepared to spend the day. Richard’s wife Melania was steady as she greeted friends and neighbors. Dennis was on the phone rounding up volunteers to “open” the grave. Four other brothers were already on their way from San Pedro, due to arrive about noon. Lola, the only daughter, was organizing a group of women serving coffee and rolls. Cristina Castro led the praying of a Rosary with her own special commentary on its “mysteries.” She reminded everyone that Richard had been a tailor; as a former teacher, she had seen his fine work in hundreds of her students’ uniforms (this included Pablito and Chepito when I got them into school years ago); he charged so little, anyone could afford him. 

Then Richard’s father arrived! Chaguito, 108 years old, the same Chaguito who buried another elderly son back in February. Now as then, Chaguito cried more than anyone, shaking all over. They brought him in and got the most comfortable chair for him, lined with pillows, where he sat for at least three hours. Imagine! For a father, your son is always your baby, no matter how old he is. 

I get all sentimental, I know, but it seemed somehow lovely that, as the angels called the shepherds to find the Baby Jesus in Bethlehem, so Richard, a man so humble he would apologize even for taking your measurements, was called to the same Christmas scene in heaven. 

There are other events, of course, that don’t need a twist of irony to redeem them. 

Birthday parties, for example!

Mariana Teresa (“Marite”) turned 4 on December 2; she always gets a cake and party, we make sure of that! since her mother Maricela named her for my sister Mary Anne. Chemo’s little cousin Daguito likewise celebrated number 4, on December 22, with his first cake ever. Usually, the family has already gone off to pick coffee in El Transito, where in fact Daguito was born. Also enjoying her first cake, Daguito’s grandmother Natalia. About time! She turned 65 on December 1. She’s Chemo’s grandmother, too, and I call her “mommy” every morning when I ask for a blessing, so I don’t know what took me so long! And Ery turned 27 on December 30; with Down Syndrome, it’s a real milestone. His best gift was the arrival of his sister Angelita from Mexico, where she has been preparing for several years now for a legal entry into the United States--as a Mexican citizen! 

One birthday passed without a cake, Chemo’s late father Juan de la Cruz, born December 1, 1944. He died years before Chemo came into my life, so the only picture we have of him is his national I.D. card, issued when he was 18; the photo is the exact image of his other son Markitos, who is 18 now himself. In a quick visit to Tegucigalpa to renew my own Honduran I.D., we “celebrated” Markitos’ girlfriend Yessica’s pregnancy, with an August due date. Oh boy! I am just so grateful that Chemo still mostly loves soccer and music! And clothes. I had Ostin, the tailor who had tried to interest Chemo in the profession, make Chemo a nice pair of pants for Christmas. And do you know, he did not even charge me! Such a lovely present! I tried to return the favor at least a little with a nice picture of him holding his new baby boy. 

Daguito’s family finally packed up and headed to El Transito December 27. The other half of Chemo’s family, Alba and Santos and their kids, had already gone off December 13. The whole town of Las Vegas is depleted in these days, though for Christmas at least an equal number of folks come back for the holidays. 

Including Padre Manuel from El Salvador. I really thought we’d never see him again when he left in August, entrusting the parish to Padre Chepito, our very first “native-born” priest from our own mountains. Manuel was genuinely thrilled you could see, to be celebrating Christmas “Midnight” Mass (6:00 p.m), and we were excited to see him. You know, there’s sort of an undercurrent of criticism making the rounds, that Padre Chepito is just not measuring up, specifically his preaching. One person said, “Chepito me duerme” (“Chepito puts me to sleep.”). Cristina Castro, who is a fiery preacher herself when she gets going, even when she’s talking about something as simple as the Rosary, said much the same thing: “I like some fire in a sermon; Chepito is like water.” I don’t know what to say. I love Chepito’s humble, sincere, deliberate “style,” if that’s what we’re calling it. 

The whole purpose of the “foreign” missionaries--from Missouri, California, Spain, Canada, or even El Salvador like Padre Manuel--was to build up the “local” church to take care of itself. Now we don’t like the “new wine”? As Jesus himself experienced, Chepito is a “prophet without honor” in his own home town. I usually feel like crying tears of thankfulness just to see this man, against all odds, finding his vocation as a priest in a backward land where I can’t even get Chemo through seventh grade after three tries, in a country where a child dies by violence every 24 hours. He’s our own Cure d’Ars. Who cares what he says! It’s a miracle that he’s here at all! Pope Francis warned in his “Joy of the Gospel” not to look for “star power” in a preacher; just let Jesus come through. 

So Padre Chepito did more First Communions, baptisms, weddings, to round out 2014, the blessed work of a pastor. 

And then, you know what, on New Year’s Eve, Padre Chepito seemed to come into his own. The church was full to overflowing, and even the drunks who had wandered in were attentive. The music was exquisite, our little choir bolstered by Elvis and Dora’s daughters Lily and Neysey, on break from the university. Chepito’s preaching was the same as always, but somehow tonight it touched a chord; so when he invited another young man, Obed, who will be entering the major seminary in February, to come up and say a few words, Chepito’s own love of his vocation came flowing out. At that point, Cristina Castro came forward and asked for the mike, to praise Chepito! “God must love us very much to have given us this priest!” She had called him “water”; now she was baptizing him! And the whole church burst into applause.

I feel the same way. God must love me--and Chemo and all of us here--very much to have given us your friendship and love. And any donations to the “Birthday Project” would be icing on the cake! 

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2014

THE FORGIVING TREE

Ferguson dominates the news here as much as there, and everywhere. A cable channel in San Pedro Sula showed events live, including President Obama’s speech, reported by their correspondent in Ferguson itself. It’s even worse, in Spanish. My own “plan”--hardly original with me--is forgiveness. It’s the only thing that actually changes reality. I suppose faith makes it more plausible, but I don’t even think believing in God is relevant when you’re bridging the gap that artist Bob Staake, married to a best friend of my sister Barb, portrayed on the cover of THE NEW YORKER. 

Honduras made its own international news, disgracing itself with the murder of Maria Jose Alvarado, our contestant for the Miss World competition in London this week. A beautiful young woman from the humblest of origins, she celebrated at a party with her sister Sofia, whose boyfriend killed them both when he saw his “girl” dancing with another man. His defense is as ugly as his crime: “She’s my lover, not my wife; I’ve got a wife, and a son; that’s what we do here.” Turns out he’s deeply connected with drug trafficking, and it’s not his first “hit.” Apparently his higher-ups reassured him, so now he’s denying everything, even though police say he’s the one who showed them where the bodies were buried, in a shallow grave by the river. “Miss Honduras Mundo” had told us that her theme for London would be the good things about Honduras, its natural beauty, its lovely people, its welcoming heart. Forgive? No one said it was easy!

So now it’s up to me, I guess, to be the bearer of good news. 

Maybe a low bridge under water and blocked by a huge trunk of tree doesn’t sound like good news, but willing and timely cooperation to open the way is worth celebrating. By the time my bus to Yoro got to the bridge, one strong man was already hacking away at the thing with an ax. The rest of us started piling the biggest rocks we could carry, to reinforce the access, washed away by the flood. I assumed it was hopeless, but the folks here have more experience with the impossible, and it worked!

My soccer team, Honduras-Progreso (HNP), made it to the playoffs in their first year in the national League. I went to to Progreso for their final game of the regular season, a rowdy contest with red and yellow cards flying, but the crowd was most thrilled by Jorge ‘Nangui’ Cardona’s first goal of the season. It’s not just my own bias, since I’ve known his family since 1977; he’s everyone’s favorite! Absolutely fearless, he’s in the middle of every play, and big scorers like Angel Tejeda, who leads the league with 12 goals, credit Nangui with their success. Nangui never “flops”; knock him down, he’s up before you’ve run away. But when a sharp elbow to the face cut him below his right eye, I thought he was done. Nope--they put a patch on it and he finished the game, a 3-3 tie, after which he got 5 stitches! 

The doctor told Nangui couldn’t play for at least a week. ‘Squeeze me? He was there in their first playoff game, in Tocoa, 4 days later, untouchable. But HNP lost that “away” game in heavy rain, 1-0. And even though they won the “home” game in Progreso the following Saturday, coming from behind again and again with a flurry of goals, 4-3, it wasn’t enough, in the arcane measurements of soccer, to qualify for the quarter-finals. Well, there’s always next...month. The new season will be starting before you know it, with two championships per calendar year. 

It’s time for a number of end-of-the-year activities. For example, graduations. Milena, daughter of Maricela and Juan Blas, graduated from her computer course, an innovative combination of technical skills and group activities. The students do Windows...and sharing! It’s a program I would love Chemo to do next year. 

Elvis and Dora’s daughter Dorita graduated from 9th grade, with a brand-new version of the plaque that commemorates the event, now featuring the student’s name! Also, their son Elvis, Jr., (“Tito”) graduated with a degree in Arts & Letters from the bachillerato in Victoria. His picture looks like he’s coming from Harvard! 

But I was the photographer of record for the little kindergarten class of La Laguna, a tiny mountain village a three-hour hike away. Five boys and girls and their teacher, they couldn’t afford a “professional.” They all arrived with their mom or dad, nervously fingering some cash. “What will you charge?” Oh, please! “Nada!” The “set” included the group photo and an individual photo, each student with the teacher. 

There were baptisms in Las Vegas and First Communion in Paraiso, both with Padre Chepito, who is so gracious with the children. I only wish we could make a bigger deal of it, you know, a “reception following” kind of thing. Just no money for such luxuries.

A soccer tournament in Las Vegas brought teams from all around the area. When Nahum scored the first goal in the home team’s tense game with Pueblo Nuevo, one drunk fan rushed onto the field with his machete, seeking to even the score. The Pueblo Nuevo team quickly surrounded him before he could do any violence, and led him off the field. A forfeit was discussed, but eventually the game was played to its conclusion, 1-0. Even rivals can agree on something. 

November 2, “All Souls Day,” is just a sweet tradition to remember our dear departed. Folks arrive at our cemetery, some as early as dawn, to decorate the graves with flowers, plants, pine needles, maybe a new cross or marker. Right at the entrance is a bump of ground for our “angelitos,” persons who died in infancy.  

The newest grave is Dona Elba Barahona, 83 years old. And you know what? I’ve known her almost half her life! Back in the day, her husband Vicente owned the only car in town, and he’d make a run to Victoria every morning at 6:00 a.m. for whoever needed to go. A little crowd would gather at his house, watching and praying the engine would turn over when he’d crank it up. Of course, if it had rained during the night, the river would rise and you couldn’t get through--maybe tomorrow. Vicente died a couple years ago, but Elba held on. What a dear! A whole family of teachers and professionals, not to mention all the grandkids, including one, Ariel Dubon, who is a male model for fancy clothing stores in Tegucigalpa. And the great-grandkids, how lucky they were to know and love her. 

For a few days there, it looked as if Manuel would be the next to go. He was in worse condition than ever, all but abandoned, it seems, by his family, who appropriated for themselves the “bonus” the government gave to the handicapped a couple months ago, leaving him unfed, unkempt, stinking in his own urine-soaked pants. We run a routine whenever he comes: soup, soda, and rolls. I send off some available kid to the nearest store, while I start heating the water, and give Manuel his pill to curtail the seizures. 

When we found him curled up in the street at 5:00 one morning as rain started to fall, we hustled him to the porch of the as-yet-unoccupied house next door. He revived a little with the soup-soda-rolls, and I was on the verge right then and there of going to Victoria to tell the police to come and make his family take responsibility. But then, a miracle--maybe, keep your fingers crossed--his father Renan, most often the drunkest of the drunk, showed up, sat with him for a while, and eventually led him home. 

A couple days later I saw Manuel clean and dressed and alert, “shopping” at a little store for juice and cookies. “Wait for your change,” said Mirna, the owner.

A few months ago, my dear friend Paige asked me to join a group she had formed to write daily scripture commentaries to assist preachers and pastors who might be looking for ideas. It’s called “Daily Bread.” The catch: no more than 145 words. If you read these CASAs, you know that is practically impossible for me! But I’m doing it and I’m loving it. I also post them on FACEBOOK. Attached is a sample. (Sorry, it’s kinda “religious”!)

Wishing you all the best for the holidays, may there be peace in our hearts and in our world. Your love has certainly made our lives here more beautiful.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAC McCAULIFFE NOVEMBER 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2014

BIG MAC LAND

He came, he saw, he ‘corazon’ed. Mac McAuliffe came to visit Honduras and he gave us his heart. Of course, he got lots of hearts in return! “Macario” to his friends, and everyone became a friend, he instantly made Honduras a second home, and fittingly enough, since he also lives in Las Vegas! (OK, Las Vegas, Nevada, but close enough.) He kept apologizing, but he spoke Spanish plenty well enough to convey his interest, enthusiasm, and concern, and if he halted, folks readily filled in the blanks. After all, there are other languages besides strictly “vocabulario,” and believe me I got a whole new appreciation myself of so many things here that I guess I had taken for granted. To see Mac’s wonder, his delight, his urgency, his practicality! filled me with hope as if I were just new myself.

This would be a tour of highlights, each experience a memory for a lifetime. It began in Tegucigalpa, where our planes landed within minutes of each other at Toncontin airport on October 15. In a couple days, he met Lily, Angelica, Markitos and Yessica--and Elio and Mema. Elio and Mema took us to lunch to celebrate my birthday, but the party atmosphere was restrained by their anxiety about their son Elio Manuel, who had been “detained” by Immigration in Atlanta where he went to visit his children, three kids among those thousands of “refugees” from the violence and dangers of Honduras. Authorities assumed Elio Manuel intended to stay, not just visit. Elio and Mema had heard nothing since his arrest 15 days before. Mema could barely eat for her trembling hands. 

That night, Elio and Mema called; Elio Manuel had finally had a “hearing” before a judge; apparently sympathetic to his cause, she suggested he apply for asylum! So they asked me if I would write a letter of support. I had only pen and paper, but I set to work, concentrating my mind to try to tell the story of the robberies, extortions, threats, and terrors that the family had endured. Welcome to Honduras, Mac! Actually, Mac made the crucial suggestion of including a copy of my passport, to “authenticate” the document. 

In Las Vegas, one family after another adopted Mac as their own. First, of course, Elvis and Dora, where we ate lunch, but also Santos and Alba, where we ate dinner, and celebrated little Albita’s third birthday. Natalia and her household couldn’t get enough of Macario, not to mention Wil and Brenda, Maricela and Juan Blas, and even Cristina Castro made sure we had a special lunch at her house. Sometimes things moved the other way, when Mac was the initiator. A financial planner by profession, Mac proposed making “investments” from himself and his friends in the “Caja Rural,” a little savings and loan in town, where Juan Blas and Wil and Brenda are on the “board.” This would add a whole new dimension to its ability to help campesinos to get their plantings and reapings to prosper. 

And Mac had another idea, a legacy of his former life as composer and musician of liturgical music. I mentioned in last month’s newsletter from St. Louis that we met in the College Church choir 35 years ago when Paige was the director. So Mac started an excited series of texts back and forth with her, suggesting a “benefit” concert for Honduras sometime soon in St. Louis. Watch this space for your pre-orders! 

My nose is always so close to the grindstone that I don’t see the big picture, just myself teetering on the edge, so I found such possibilities breathtaking!                                    

His journal already overflowing, we moved on to Morazan, now with Chemo along, for a couple days with Fermin and Maria’s family. First thing we did there was buy donuts from their daughter Esly (whose photo graces the hall by the Parkway North library). About to graduate with a degree in “comercio,” she and her classmates are getting hands-on practice in business production. Speaking of production, Mac was bowled over by Maria’s endless hospitality: “They feed us every 15 minutes here!” Just as amazing was Fermin’s fifth-grade class, who were staging “debates” about public-safety laws. The kids were so poised, so well-informed, so prepared, so attentive that you couldn’t believe they were 10-year-olds! “This isn’t a class, this is a seminar!” 

Last stop, El Progreso, where we wondered if recent flooding from heavy rains would impede our progress. But all was well as we gathered for lunch with Santa’s family; we brought a cake to celebrate the 70th birthday of Tina, Santa’s mom. Jorge, “Nangui,” Santa’s son, star soccer player for Honduras-Progreso, the new team taking the League by storm, joined us with his wife Marta and their bouncing baby twins Camila and Ivan. Suddenly, Nangui spotted one, no, two! iguanas high up in the avocado tree. Joel scrambled up the branches to shake them out, and when the first one dropped to the ground, it took off, never to be seen again--or so I thought. But no, Nangui outran it and trapped it with a towel! He outran the second one, too, a classic bright green dinosaur. “You’re gonna be too tired for the game tonight!” I said. “No, sir, I’m just warming up!” 

And you should have seen him in the game! If he didn’t already have the nickname Nangui I think “Iguana” would have stuck. A furious affair, there was a goal apiece in the first 5 minutes, a red-card apiece in the next 15, even Nangui got a yellow card, but that’s because he’s in virtually every play! He hasn’t scored a goal yet this season, but he’s his teammates’ ready “assist.” Mac and I thought the score was 4-2 Progreso as the game ended, or we would have been a lot more nervous. (It was actually 3-2.) It was their first victory in 5 games, still undefeated at home. Afterwards, we all gathered at Marta’s street-corner baleadas stand to celebrate. Eventually, Nangui joined us, where he would stay till 11:00 to help clean up, and go home to the babies.

Next day, October 25, Chemo and I accompanied Macario to the San Pedro Sula airport, where he left with promises of return, maybe with his wife, a professional musician herself featured in numerous Las Vegas venues. 

Thank you for taking this virtual tour! It was the perfect follow-up to my month in St. Louis, the blessing of being with you there, the blessing of carrying you in my heart back here. ‘Corazon a corazon,’ heart to heart.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--ST. LOUIS 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--ST. LOUIS 2014

THE AGONY AND THE AGAPE

http://www.wimp.com/helpedchild/

I saw my nephew Nick, who just got out of 2 years in jail. The “system” is full of red tape,  so he had a number of other, minor charges to clear up, including a 50-dollar fine for “visible undergarment” or “sagging” in Charlack, a little speed-trap in north county. Nick’s defense: “It was a hot day, I took off my shirt.” But it’s nice to know our government is protecting us from crack! On the other hand, when he got stranded at the Clayton courthouse, where he had to convince them that they did really want to see him (“Try Doolick”), a policewoman in a squad car comes up. “What are you doing?” “I’m just looking for a way to get home,” a half-way house downtown. “Well, I can only transport prisoners.” She thought for a moment. “Here’s what we’ll do.” She put him in handcuffs and took him to a bus stop on Skinker, and “released” him. Nick: “I wonder what anybody thought who saw that!”

So that brings me to Ferguson. Be careful what you wish for. I thought Ferguson would be “all over” by the time I arrived in St. Louis. And now it is--all over the world! This bedeviled community is struggling so hard to find its center, and it just keeps getting pulled out of balance. A former student who has friends in Ferguson, took me for a visit. No sooner did we arrive than sirens called us to the perpetual protest at the police station, where somebody had struck a protester with his car, and the police arrested the protester--that is, until multiple smartphone videos convinced them to arrest the driver. After more than two months, at least one friend is near the breaking point. “I don’t know if I can do it anymore, I just can’t.” It’s the struggle to keep the peace, keep the calm, keep the hope, and keep the vigilance. One organizer’s face so sad, his tee-shirt pleading: “Pause, Prepare, Plan, Participate Peacefully.” The police formed a line, no guns out, no riot gear, not even hats, and the chief arrived. Talking and shouting continued till a voice announced: “This is no longer a peaceful protest, you are now subject to arrest.” Nothing had changed or “escalated” that I could see, but we dispersed anyway, and had lunch at Cathy’s Kitchen, beginning to get the notice it deserves as a unique eating experience. I had the best fried shrimp I’ve ever had, and the best apple pie. 

Then I asked to visit the site of Michael Brown’s death, where a little shrine of flowers, candles, and mementoes in the middle of Canfield Drive marks the spot. Canfield is a gently curving lane through a large green space, with sturdy, rustic apartments on either side. You cannot imagine that anything “controversial” would happen there. I closed my eyes and prayed, for Michael Brown and his family, for Officer Darren Wilson and his family, for everyone and anyone I could and could not name. 

Some days later, when rumors flew that a police officer had been shot, FACEBOOK lit up till a former student of mine, whose policeman husband was pulling 13-hour shifts in                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Ferguson, finally reassured us: “I’ve heard it wasn’t Chris, thank God.” The wounds are not just the blood. There’s racist rants white and black, tears and fears through town and country--sometimes on the same FACEBOOK page. Ferguson, as much as Honduras, where we get 20 Fergusons a day, prompted the title for my new photobook that I show around: “Have a Heart!”

The gentlest protest came at a St. Louis Symphony performance of Brahms’ “Requiem,” when a choir from Ferguson rose from their seats in the audience as the conductor took the stage, to sing an improvised “requiem for Mike Brown.” It was brief, a couple or three minutes, but so beautifully sung that patrons and even orchestra members applauded. Others treated the “interruption” more rudely, but the singers departed peacefully and the scheduled performance proceeded. It was also Yom Kippur, adding another note of solemnity, and no police were called. I heard it all live on the public radio broadcast of the symphony, and when photos and videos appeared, I recognized longtime friends among the singers.

The St. Louis I thought I knew goes like this: When I went to the 13-inning Cardinals game September 18 with my sisters Barb and Nancy and Nancy’s son Dan, we scalped MetroLink tickets from a couple black guys, we scalped game tickets from a couple white guys, and I bought my bratwurst from a black woman who pointed at me and said to my sister, “He’s handsome!” Fans all, everyone cheered “Big City” as he scored the winning run, and we all crammed the last train of the night in celebration. 

But “things fall apart, the center cannot hold,” as the poet said, and now the whole city has broken along fault lines--”sides”--that we can no longer paper over. Maybe compassion is the key, compassion that dissolves the differences, and the indifference. Com-passion, what the Scriptures call “agape,” that unifying love that knows no bounds. 

At last, I opened my eyes on Canfield Drive, and tears flowed. Ferguson should be on everyone’s “bucket list,” to know its conflicts and its passion. And Cathy’s Kitchen.

As for me, I was bathed in love while I was in St. Louis! I spoke with classes at three schools, where students and teachers responded beyond all expectations. I saw old friends, new friends, babies and bobos (grandparents), and I guess I ate my weight about 6 times over. 

My sister Barb’s house, which burned up last December--just in time for Christmas--is almost ready for re-habitation, and it is beautiful. Somehow Barb has maintained her equilibrium and her sense of humor through this ordeal, which at last is coming to an end. She said, in her patented style: “What I love about the house right now, is--there’s NOTHING in it!” Love ya, Barb! 

Was I busy? Here’s one day. Rick Blaha invited me to the recurring breakfast of retirees of the Parkway North history department at Jenny’s Cafe (141 and Olive). Meanwhile, North grad Amy Thames Latta asked if we could meet for coffee; she’d be coming from a meeting in U. City, heading home to St. Charles, Jenny’s Cafe right on the way. And Mac McAuliffe, in town only for a few days, who I hadn’t seen since our choir days together at the College Church 35 years ago, said we should have lunch to chat about Honduras and then go out to visit the choir’s director, Paige Byrne Shortal, who now makes her home in Union, MO, straight out Highway 44, Jenny’s Cafe right on the way. So Teresa Jorgen, the absolutely best host on the planet, gave me a ride to Jenny’s Cafe: 8:30 breakfast with the retirees, 10:30 coffee with Amy, 12:30 lunch with Mac, and then off to Union. By that time, I had made friends with everyone in Jenny’s Cafe, including Jenny! That’s about how things went for the whole month.

A couple of emergencies foreshortened the time I might have spent with other friends--and family!--that I longed to see. I’ll try to plan better next time....

Meanwhile, Mac McAuliffe has actually joined me here in Honduras! He lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, but he wanted to see my Las Vegas. He flew all night, arriving on Delta from Atlanta; I came via Houston, and we met up at the airport in Tegucigalpa. The adventure continues!

I came to St. Louis to see your beautiful faces. The attached photos (I hope it doesn’t crash your computer!) are my tribute to your lovingkindness.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2014

HAPPINESS IS THE TRUTH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Miguel

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

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

DOUBLE CROSS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 A Refugee Crisis, Not an Immigration Crisis

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

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

Love, Miguel