My name is Hector. I am ten years old. I sell mandarin oranges at the corner of the bus terminal in Nueva Suyapa. My mom sent me out to work about six months ago when times got tough due to the political crisis and the economy. She makes tortillas out of the house, but, you know, no one’s buying the same amount as they used to. Tortillas are a must but five tortillas per meal is just a luxury, so we all learned to cut back, even in the rich neighborhood, Miraflores, where my mom now sells tortillas.
Ever since I was three, she would get up at four in the morning to make tortillas, well, first to go to the corn grinder to grind the corn. I remember waking up to the sweet smell of the wood burning stove welcoming this morning’s version of fire. There then was the sound of swish swish, splat, intertwined with a puff puff crackle, interrupted by our hen’s cockle doodle doo, it was like my daily wake up orchestra. I guess it’s the entertainment we’ve got in these parts. Instruments are hard to come by here, guitars are the most common. I only know about orchestras because we had the opportunity to go to the pretty theatre down town, Manuel Bonilla for a Christmas concert, and there was what my teacher said was an orchestra playing when I told her I really liked the music. She took the time to explain to me what every instrument was called, because she could tell I really liked it. I had never felt so much of a warm feeling in my belly, well besides the kitchen when my mom was making tortillas, but this was different.
When after the swish swish splat came the clap clap clap, I knew then my mom had progressed to forming the tortillas with her hands. To flatten and ensure roundness she transfers the once small ball of cornmeal from one hand to another as fast as she possibly can, stretching the batter simultaneously, creating a perfectly circular tortilla, consistent with the others. Handmade tortillas are hard to come by these days, plus those ones made of real corn, not the store bought gross maeseca stuff that they press with the Mexican tortilla pressers that create super thin tortillas. Even though my mom doesn’t even have a real wood burning stove, hers is made out of pieces of metal, she has managed to make tortillas of better quality than the average one these days, selling them for four for two Lempiras, whereas those maeseca ones cost five for two Lempira, and for awhile was making a lot of money out of them. But quality isn’t as much valued when full is the aim. Still my mom wouldn’t cave, she is really traditional in that way. In other ways she really isn’t, like she taught me how to make tortillas once and I got pretty good, so sometimes she would let me help her or do it for her when she was sick. It is usually the woman’s job to make the tortillas, and they say that if a woman can’t make good tortillas she won’t be able to find a man, and if a man makes tortillas he is gay. Well, I kind of like making tortillas, and I kissed Maria from class one day at recess and I liked it too, so I think I can like the two together and not be any of those names they call me. I don’t think my mom is one of those feminists, it just came out of necessity. I was the oldest, and she needed help. I started taking care of my brothers and sisters when I was eight, so Mom could go to Miraflores to sell tortillas. I felt proud that she trusted me but scared that one of my brothers or sisters would disappear or choke on something, or I would do something wrong and hurt them. I only hit them every now and then, because I don’t like it when my mom hits me. She can be pretty nice, but when she hits us its like she is another person. Sometimes it is for things I didn’t even do anything wrong, like slip on a banana peel in the road, she says I better watch better, and I wasn’t being careful. Sometimes, when I did something that she considers really bad, like sneaking out to play soccer when she comes home, well she hits me until she gets tired, and it really doesn’t matter where. She has a reason though, I was being mischievous.
The instrument I watched the most was the violin. It fascinates me how different pieces of string put together can make such a beautiful sound, depending on what you do with it; especially knowing that some strings are made out of catgut, that’s disgusting. My teacher told me that, cuz I was asking lots of questions. I never knew adults could like questions, but I guess that is a teacher’s job, to ask and answer questions. What a cool job, I wish my mom was a teacher. When I ask her questions like those ones I had about the violin, cuz I just wanted to know things, you know, she would get angry and say shut up or you ask way too many questions. Sometimes I think I’m smarter than her. I’m in the 4th grade, and I’ve never stayed behind or even had to go through recuperation. She never passed the sixth grade, and she says she wants me to graduate from high school, that would make her proud. But sometimes she just seems jealous or feels stupid or something. Sometimes, when she was preparing tortillas, I would have to help her with math. I would help her and then she would get mad at me, for some little thing I did, even though I was the one who helped her, things like that.
I think my mom is beautiful. She is one of the few women on our block who had the guts to cut and keep short hair, and I really think it looks good on her. It is not really a mushroom cut, but her hair is about that length, a little past her ears, rounded, with little orange rind curly cues to frame her cheeks and forehead. The hair in the back of her head goes a little past the end of her neck, kind of like a boy’s style. She has a wonderful smile, with an off center dimple on her left cheek, that dimple mixed with those curls have given her a long line of admirers, many of whom I don’t like. I think just by nature, I am protective of her. My dad wasn’t that great either, always telling her to stay in the house, and wouldn’t let her sell her tortillas in Miraflores, only from the house, though he never hit her, and he really seemed to love her, he just had a different idea of what a woman’s job was. That seemed to be what everyone told him, so that is what he demanded, and demand he did. My mom was actually the one who left him, I was proud of her for that. That was also pretty nontraditional. She didn’t tell me why, I just kind of figured some things out because I was curious, plus we live in a two room house, and I can basically hear everything that happens in there, so, nicely and badly there are no secrets. I have many a time heard and comforted my mom sobbing either after talking on the phone with my father or just out of loneliness I guess, hard to know. All I know is I cry out of loneliness often, so I guess it is not uncommon.
I have some friends I play soccer with, but the thing is I can’t get out to play very often, what with first looking after my brother and sister and then with selling mandarin oranges. I have a friend who sometimes helps me sell, or competes with me. I don’t mind much that he competes, because I just like him being around. That is how I felt that night with my teacher, but even more so, well I wanted her to stay and answer my questions. She even seemed impressed by them, like I was really smart or something. That was what made me think I was smart. Sometimes, while I was watching the violinist, I would look out of the side of my eyes and catch my teacher looking over at me. She told me she played the cello in high school and college, and kind of misses it, she plays it every now and then these days, but teaching doesn’t allow for it much, you know. I guess I got her interest then.
When I went home that night, I told my mom all about the concert, the violin, the cello, my teacher, the songs, and how much I loved it all and couldn’t stop watching the violinist play, how fast she ran that bow back and forth, how quickly she moved her fingers. More than that, I told her about the music the orchestra produced, how many different sounds I heard at once, and how they all blended together perfectly. I told her about how I could pick out each instrument after listening to them for awhile, but especially the violin. I told her it seemed easy after you got taught the basics. Well, that’s what it seemed to me at least. My mom was more interested than I had ever seen her, she got excited when I did. She told me later she had never seen me like this before, so happy about something. She told me she had always felt bad, me being the oldest and all, having to take on so much responsibility. She said she remembers when I was a baby and we used to play peek a boo, and I would just giggle forever, and when I got old enough to talk, I learned how to say “again” pretty fast, so I would say that over and over again so that she would continue playing peek a boo, or throwing me up and kissing me, so she would. She said she wanted that moment to last forever, but then came the bills and the other children, and soon it all became a responsibility, like the one I have selling oranges, and we lost the fun. That night, the excitement I had about the violin, was fun, she told me. So we stayed up all night and danced like we would on the 24th and the 31st, just the two of us, it was true enjoyment.
My favorite Christmas song growing up was always “Night of Peace” (Noche de Paz or Silent Night). I think I always had some kind of magnetic stuck feeling to the concept of Peace. I always thought that would be so nice, sounded like a nice thought though I’m not sure I knew what it meant. But that night, listening to that violin, piano, cello, bass playing “Night of Peace”, I knew what it meant. It was that warm feeling I felt in my belly, and a break between the chaos of changing diapers and pleading for people to buy my oranges. It’s what I feel after a day of work, with a little extra in my pocket, coming home to a mom, content too, because she has a little extra in her pocket, watching her cradle my youngest sister and softly sing to her. It is the feeling I got dancing through the night with my mom. It is the feeling I felt when I came home Christmas Eve, before all the dancing started, and my mom said she had a surprise for me. It was a perfectly sized, shiny, non cat gut violin. And it is the feeling I get now, bow and instrument in my hand, using my other type of thought to discover where to put my fingers next.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Volveremos
The next time I waited in a long line, which this time, was over 1,000 people long, with cars, once again, learned to park on the side of the road was on Boulevard Morazán, the mero-mero of enjoyment in Tegucigalpa, the night that Honduras qualified for the World Cup finals in South Africa. It was a pulperia lottery chance that all Hondurans were sitting on the edge of their seat, praying, hoping and consulting all kinds of rabbit feet to come into fruition. In typical Honduran style, the Seleccion Nacional that all worshiped and followed even more than a Sunday afternoon service, waited till the last minute to put it all together. But, also in typical Honduran style, they summoned all their already overflowing passion, stored up angst and stress regarding the political crisis and inner adrenaline driven strength and came through. Their entry into the finals was more dependent on the performance of the U.S in their game against Costa Rica than Honduras’ own game against El Salvador, which, even if they won, was not a ticket into the finals. For once, out of their left over table scraps, the U.S showed a little bit of indirect generosity in valiantly scoring two goals against Costa Rica, the last one within minutes of the end of the game tying it up, preventing Costa Rica from getting a win point in the finals, putting Honduras in third place for the Concacaf region, U.S in first and Mexico in second.
When all this was realized, first by the fans, then by the players themselves, there were exponential celebrations throughout the country. In our Nueva Suyapa Genesis microcosm, behavior mimicked that of the players, incredulous exuberance that motivated tears, hugging, jumping up and down in cheers and mutual congratulating. Even the younger ones of the bunch were aware of the feat that had just been accomplished, and fed off the excitement of their elders, who became like children themselves, completely overcome by ecstasy, a rare moment that they decided to take advantage of.
The evangelical stiff erupted in dance to the prophetic song by well renowned Honduran singer Polache, “Volveremos”, for those who had prayed and unbelievingly predicted this moment, including Honduran Seleccion players themselves, it was a spiritual miracle. A halfed country, that jointly lived, breathed and intuned their Seleccion Nacional was one in emotion due to one chance goal at the hand of another.
This unity was apparent on Boulevard Morazán that night where thousands of Hondurans instinctively and immediately drove, motorcycled and walked to celebrate together. Hand slapping, spontaneous cheering started by one group and joined in by many others, various song singing, wearing Honduran and U.S flags, jumping on top and all around arriving cars and trucks, blowing plastic and shell trumpets, dancing, jumping up and down as one were common activities. Many people ran and walked up and down freely on the usually swiftly flowing traffic street to share their joint excitement with fellow countrymen and women. It all concoursed, ironically enough, at TGI Fridays where the Gringos once again dispersed of their sparse benevolence and provided a large tele-screen for the crowd to view their new disputed president congratulate the country and its beloved players as one. All were ecstatic to hear announced yet another holiday at the hands of the current government. Out of the 200 days of 4 hour day classes required by the government, public school kids have had between 80 and 90 days this year, which, on top of the numerous class cancelations due to teacher strikes and curfews, was mandated to end by October 31, to prepare for the upcoming elections. In addition to this, all kids are automatically passed on to the next grade, irrelevant of their skill level, whereas usually all children take a test each year, those who don’t pass it have a recovery period and a recovery test, and those who do not pass the recovery test stay in the same grade. This is projected to strongly hurt especially younger children’s ability to read and write, which will, ten years later, affect the work force and more importantly, further entrench the ditch of poverty in Honduras. A report stated that a year lost in school for a nation could possibly delay its development by seven years.
The country mosh pits together in the night life day bright haven thinking that in the unified jumping and visceral touching they could become brothers again. Back at the Brazilian embassy, the dueling presidents can’t seem to share the sentiment, Micheletti juggling time between the self-appointed elated privilege of congratulating the first Honduran team in twenty eight years for its entry into the World Cup Finals and functioning but not so slick delay tactics once again does not allow for the exhaustive talks to go anywhere. Sometimes I wonder what they spend so much time talking about, focusing on fluff while the most important ingredient is still a stalemate. Seems like a record filibuster.
“If Honduras makes it into the World Cup, well that will be the push Honduras needs to end the political crisis,” the cry of eager Hondurans echoed before the match.
Afterwards, there was no talk of that becoming a reality and yet too much talk that led to nothing.
When all this was realized, first by the fans, then by the players themselves, there were exponential celebrations throughout the country. In our Nueva Suyapa Genesis microcosm, behavior mimicked that of the players, incredulous exuberance that motivated tears, hugging, jumping up and down in cheers and mutual congratulating. Even the younger ones of the bunch were aware of the feat that had just been accomplished, and fed off the excitement of their elders, who became like children themselves, completely overcome by ecstasy, a rare moment that they decided to take advantage of.
The evangelical stiff erupted in dance to the prophetic song by well renowned Honduran singer Polache, “Volveremos”, for those who had prayed and unbelievingly predicted this moment, including Honduran Seleccion players themselves, it was a spiritual miracle. A halfed country, that jointly lived, breathed and intuned their Seleccion Nacional was one in emotion due to one chance goal at the hand of another.
This unity was apparent on Boulevard Morazán that night where thousands of Hondurans instinctively and immediately drove, motorcycled and walked to celebrate together. Hand slapping, spontaneous cheering started by one group and joined in by many others, various song singing, wearing Honduran and U.S flags, jumping on top and all around arriving cars and trucks, blowing plastic and shell trumpets, dancing, jumping up and down as one were common activities. Many people ran and walked up and down freely on the usually swiftly flowing traffic street to share their joint excitement with fellow countrymen and women. It all concoursed, ironically enough, at TGI Fridays where the Gringos once again dispersed of their sparse benevolence and provided a large tele-screen for the crowd to view their new disputed president congratulate the country and its beloved players as one. All were ecstatic to hear announced yet another holiday at the hands of the current government. Out of the 200 days of 4 hour day classes required by the government, public school kids have had between 80 and 90 days this year, which, on top of the numerous class cancelations due to teacher strikes and curfews, was mandated to end by October 31, to prepare for the upcoming elections. In addition to this, all kids are automatically passed on to the next grade, irrelevant of their skill level, whereas usually all children take a test each year, those who don’t pass it have a recovery period and a recovery test, and those who do not pass the recovery test stay in the same grade. This is projected to strongly hurt especially younger children’s ability to read and write, which will, ten years later, affect the work force and more importantly, further entrench the ditch of poverty in Honduras. A report stated that a year lost in school for a nation could possibly delay its development by seven years.
The country mosh pits together in the night life day bright haven thinking that in the unified jumping and visceral touching they could become brothers again. Back at the Brazilian embassy, the dueling presidents can’t seem to share the sentiment, Micheletti juggling time between the self-appointed elated privilege of congratulating the first Honduran team in twenty eight years for its entry into the World Cup Finals and functioning but not so slick delay tactics once again does not allow for the exhaustive talks to go anywhere. Sometimes I wonder what they spend so much time talking about, focusing on fluff while the most important ingredient is still a stalemate. Seems like a record filibuster.
“If Honduras makes it into the World Cup, well that will be the push Honduras needs to end the political crisis,” the cry of eager Hondurans echoed before the match.
Afterwards, there was no talk of that becoming a reality and yet too much talk that led to nothing.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Incarnation
This morning, before giving a Dharma talk, I was having breakfast with my attendant…I paused and said to him, “Dear one, do you see the cow on the hillside? She is eating grass in order to make my yoghurt, and I am now eating the yoghurt to make a Dharma talk.” Somehow, the cow will offer today’s Dharma talk. As I drank the cow’s milk, I was a child of the cow.
Thich Nhat Hanh, p.117, The Heart of the Buddha’s teaching.
It blows frontal locks,
enters in past other purposed hairs of my nose
and exits on the bottom of my tongue,
like a gleek. As I watch leaves waving
in the trees; a little close. The ones far away
in my sight stayed still. The flag salutes
simultaneously, all by the same force.
The finished swinging children
watch spinning, churning in wonder
observing robotic servants
compared to brute physical
forcing soapywaterandcloth mix
slodging against rippled stone
causing thinned wear, rips, tears
two hours tired; forming forearms
´´Que Rapido!´´
they fascinated.
“The water looks like a waterfall,”
belongs to pictures only;
they settle for sewage streams
that carry my stains to
grey rapids down below;
mimicking
the rivers that pulse through me.
An elevated oversized ant hole is used
as a soccer field. Posts; whatever is available.
One kid’s neon yellow shirt catches the setting sun
drying my and radial neighbor’s hung clothes;
a multi-leveled kaleidoscope.
A man carrying maize as a hat
lunges up one dirt exposed bank
protected slightly by select patches of grass
and even fewer existence of trees,
fruit and wild alike.
Up is a tentative oasis,
marked by cell phone towers;
down: stacked upon glued together
houses wherever an empty space
on the old garbage mound.
“Donuts, Donuts” trumpets to all those
in dilapidated circumference; a mom requests
her daughters presence
across the ditch, echoed
by ten. Birds exclaim to their lovers
about the flowers that fought to vibrant.
Nails aim to create structure,
the foundational rhythm to it all;
“No Woman No cry” provides their soundtrack
to Tegucigalpa's amphitheatre.
A wasp explores the metal fence,
my protective lens
to the dueling mountains:
those visibly untouched
and those turned into poverty’s museum.
The clouds, being no discriminator
floats and encloses around them both,
by heaven’s version of
what flows through my lungs.
Thich Nhat Hanh, p.117, The Heart of the Buddha’s teaching.
It blows frontal locks,
enters in past other purposed hairs of my nose
and exits on the bottom of my tongue,
like a gleek. As I watch leaves waving
in the trees; a little close. The ones far away
in my sight stayed still. The flag salutes
simultaneously, all by the same force.
The finished swinging children
watch spinning, churning in wonder
observing robotic servants
compared to brute physical
forcing soapywaterandcloth mix
slodging against rippled stone
causing thinned wear, rips, tears
two hours tired; forming forearms
´´Que Rapido!´´
they fascinated.
“The water looks like a waterfall,”
belongs to pictures only;
they settle for sewage streams
that carry my stains to
grey rapids down below;
mimicking
the rivers that pulse through me.
An elevated oversized ant hole is used
as a soccer field. Posts; whatever is available.
One kid’s neon yellow shirt catches the setting sun
drying my and radial neighbor’s hung clothes;
a multi-leveled kaleidoscope.
A man carrying maize as a hat
lunges up one dirt exposed bank
protected slightly by select patches of grass
and even fewer existence of trees,
fruit and wild alike.
Up is a tentative oasis,
marked by cell phone towers;
down: stacked upon glued together
houses wherever an empty space
on the old garbage mound.
“Donuts, Donuts” trumpets to all those
in dilapidated circumference; a mom requests
her daughters presence
across the ditch, echoed
by ten. Birds exclaim to their lovers
about the flowers that fought to vibrant.
Nails aim to create structure,
the foundational rhythm to it all;
“No Woman No cry” provides their soundtrack
to Tegucigalpa's amphitheatre.
A wasp explores the metal fence,
my protective lens
to the dueling mountains:
those visibly untouched
and those turned into poverty’s museum.
The clouds, being no discriminator
floats and encloses around them both,
by heaven’s version of
what flows through my lungs.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Phase II Tug of War
Phase II: Tug of War; 21 Sept 2009
The return of Mel Zelaya came as his departure did: “like a thief in the night” just as he and his ‘Savior’ said it would be. Though at this point, he and so many had cried wolf that the general population barely moved when the news trickled down to their own social ripple, some still faithfully deeming true whatever their new interim government sells them. If Micheletti blatantly lies to save face, as is common in Honduras, stating Mel Zelaya is not in Honduras until live news casts force him to admit it, those wanting “Peace and Democracy” have no other option but to believe it. Once his presence was confirmed as fact, the shock, sheer unbelief and surprise of ‘how in the hell did he do that?´ found a hard time settling in.
I found out, once again, by people who expected I already knew, through a text message a friend showed me that said, “Get out ¨Golpistas¨(Coup-ers) Long Live the Resistance!” common slogans used by Mel´s resistance crew that had been graffitied all over key city buildings and once aesthetically pleasing structures all over the city.
Mel had attempted to return the 5th of July on an airplane which could not land due to army tanks taking over the runway. On the 25th of July he proved he could in fact enter Honduras by quickly crossing over the Nicaragua border to the spot where it said “Welcome to Honduras” rallied around his support and went back to his asylum stationed country. This 21st of September entry. however, was an infamous feat that the grown sleepy by inaction armed forces didn´t expect. He says he walked fifteen hours ´through rivers and mountains´ through El Salvador with his crew to the smoggy capital of Honduras to reinstate his reign.
“Come on, you actually believe that,” a client of the community center where I work remarks,
“ He was driven in a private car.”
“He explained the way he crossed the border to news sources,” an animated coworker, Alan, explains.
“He said he shot out a prayer as he crossed, and a mighty wind moved through the pines, causing them to bend and make a big noise. So the soldiers turned, and focused their attention on the pines, and Mel Zelaya and crew could cross, unnoticed. He said it was a miracle…” Alan´s audience, over-devout Christians who thought it comical and ironic for any Honduran political figure to summon upon God and claim divine intervention, exploded.
“He was quoting a verse in Isaiah,” Marvin added, “Something about how God is always with you.”
Tickled, the office folk transitioned into a description of Mel´s current state where he decided to announce his return and is now sequestered, at the Brazilian embassy.
“Nobody can bring food in, they cut off the water, electricity, phone lines, he might as well be in prison.” Johnny reflected.
“They say a Venezuelan plane came in later,” Alan continued, “They came with Hugo Chavez, checked up on him and the plane left.”
A more left leaning newspaper, El Tiempo, which temporarily and often, was an ‘unreachable domain’ online, stated on behalf of Hugo Chavez, “We are behind you Mel, the Venezuelan army is ready to fight.”
Chavez´s close relationship with Manuel Zelaya has now become common knowledge, out in the open, so much, that Mel called Hugo Chavez´s cell phone when he arrived at the Brazilian embassy while Chavez was at an inauguration of a computer program for kids. Chavez was proud to announce to the audience Mel´s arrival in Honduras, to which most applauded. Chavez said he would be in Honduras to meet and discuss with other leaders the next day. It was as if they had planned it, and now only receiving pre-determined signals to know which move to make next.
Ecstatic about his return, Mel supporters rallied around the Brazilian embassy and extended their celebration into the streets, where a second grade student claimed they were charging a 100 Lempira ($5) fine to all who passed by at around 1:00p.m, when all the action was unfolding. This particular driver of this van of school children refused to pay the fine, and was eventually, strangely and gratefully passed through.
In predictable grip tightening fashion, Roberto Micheletti swiftly set a curfew (be at home or at least in your neighborhood) for 4:00pm at 3:30pm. The stated aim, “keep peace and prevent possible violence”. The hidden aim, “keep all Mel supporters from organizing and create a legitimate reason to punish them for doing so.” No action or dialogue even pursued much less resolved, Mel Zelaya still in the Brazilian embassy, Micheletti extended the curfew to 6am the next (Tuesday September 22) morning, and when that still wasn´t long enough extended it to 6pm Tuesday evening apparently that wasn´t long enough, so they extended it until 6am and then 6pm Wednesday.
On Tuesday morning, the from five am to seven pm bustling bus terminal was wanting of aggressive sing-songy sales pitches by cobradors and competing taxi drivers and the vehicles that made their shouts possible. The only vehicles seen were BMX bikes undersized for their owner doing figure eights and attempts at jumps, taking full advantage of their new found traffic free space. These were accompanied by the occasional motorcycle and the stagnant morning vegetable and afternoon cheese trucks. These determined to make a buck vendors join these pre-gang misfits in lounging with the news radio on full blast, simultaneously chiding them and all those within earshot to be astute and aware of the latest move of the dueling
presidents.
Upon nightfall, across the still vacant terminal at Nueva Suyapa´s own mini-market central, the owner is faced with the dual task of trying to sell his products while avoiding going scarce on the routinely delivered ones. His two co-workers/family members efficiently, professionally and hurriedly receive orders and collect products to be given to customers, shuffling through dirty bills and running to the cash stash to return change. They do this all with candles, as the routine crisis time power outage has lasted longer this night.
“The truck of products was due to come today; but with the situation like this, they wouldn’t let anybody go out of their prospective colonias to get anything or anybody come in to deliver anything.” He apologized to merchandise-hungry customers with a spelunking flashlight strapped to his forehead in the electricity starved dark.
“I heard they were even forcing some businesses to close downtown.” He explained to me after the ravenous crowd had left.
“Soon people are going to start raiding the stores. With all of this rising uncertainty, they’re going to get scared that they won’t be able to get food when they need it so they’re going to stock up.”
“Those who suffer are the people, while these guys sit around and decide whether or not to have dialogue,” He rightfully complains.
As I walked from one of the always stocked product depleting pulperias to the next, the dust packed road was almost empty, allowing it to haze into the city-plagued darkness above.
Pulperia #2, unlike #1, had candles for sale.
There, an old man with more gaps than browning teeth sprayed through them,
“32 injured at the Brazilian embassy off to Hospital Escuela. But, then again, those protestors, hooligans on both sides really, being paid off, and then when the police crackdown, eh, well, that is just another level of thug.”
Right before my eyes were the visible signs of “the people” growing disgruntled and losing faith in a “Honduras for Peace and Democracy”.
Many of them were behind and in front of me in the 65 person line at the pharmacy on Wednesday, when, due to all over outrage with the 30 hour curfew (toca de queda), that a local pro-interim government newspaper called a “toca de hambre” (Hunger Curfew), the interim government saw it necessary to give Hondurans at least a window to shop: between 10am and 4pm. Unsure of when this chance would come again, afraid the current government was going to continue to grip so tight their nails would start digging into the country, everyone that had the resources went out, waited in 500 people grocery store lines and bought. The parking lots to malls and grocery stores couldn’t fit the demand of parking space, nor the grocery stores themselves fit the customers, hence the lines. Gas stations and banks echoed in similar chaos. When we asked for a handful of money, the amount of $US1,500, the bank teller told us we had to wait for the money truck to come, which at 10:30a.m was just filling up.
“I never thought anything like this would ever happen my country. Never in my country!! Look at this craziness!!” Said an outraged middle aged woman waiting to buy her medicine whose teenage daughter, having apparently heard the spiel many a time before had contracted a sickness of her own that involved repetitive sighing.
“All because of these two power hungry men, who act like they need all of our freedom and money, we have to do crazy things like rush to the store all at the same time, wait in line, hoard what we can find,” she raised decibels, which inspired eye rolling in the already annoyed.
“Puppets, that’s all we are to them, being tossed and manipulated to their very whim. Is this entertaining to them? Their own sick form of fun!” she continues, defiant and pokerfaced to her daughter’s poor attempt at indirect communication.
Her daughters disease was not the only one newly infected, as booked psychologists and psychiatrists can testify and a rise in assaults and murders has displayed.
“The next step is a military state,” a friend informs me, “first comes the coup, then comes the curfew then the military state,” says one who has lived through the horrific transition from democracy to a dictatorship.
“I remember exactly how it was in the late 70’s, nobody is allowed to leave their house even within their own colonia or allowed to buy anything, like being under a country wide house arrest.”
And that is how it had already begun to feel, as, days later, Roberto Micheletti suspends a slew of civil liberties, including freedoms of the press and of assembly, an accustomed to various levels of abuse population braces themselves for the next blow, not even blinking as they crawl on the ground searching for their candles and matches on the eve of the 50th ‘unplanned’ power outage.
The return of Mel Zelaya came as his departure did: “like a thief in the night” just as he and his ‘Savior’ said it would be. Though at this point, he and so many had cried wolf that the general population barely moved when the news trickled down to their own social ripple, some still faithfully deeming true whatever their new interim government sells them. If Micheletti blatantly lies to save face, as is common in Honduras, stating Mel Zelaya is not in Honduras until live news casts force him to admit it, those wanting “Peace and Democracy” have no other option but to believe it. Once his presence was confirmed as fact, the shock, sheer unbelief and surprise of ‘how in the hell did he do that?´ found a hard time settling in.
I found out, once again, by people who expected I already knew, through a text message a friend showed me that said, “Get out ¨Golpistas¨(Coup-ers) Long Live the Resistance!” common slogans used by Mel´s resistance crew that had been graffitied all over key city buildings and once aesthetically pleasing structures all over the city.
Mel had attempted to return the 5th of July on an airplane which could not land due to army tanks taking over the runway. On the 25th of July he proved he could in fact enter Honduras by quickly crossing over the Nicaragua border to the spot where it said “Welcome to Honduras” rallied around his support and went back to his asylum stationed country. This 21st of September entry. however, was an infamous feat that the grown sleepy by inaction armed forces didn´t expect. He says he walked fifteen hours ´through rivers and mountains´ through El Salvador with his crew to the smoggy capital of Honduras to reinstate his reign.
“Come on, you actually believe that,” a client of the community center where I work remarks,
“ He was driven in a private car.”
“He explained the way he crossed the border to news sources,” an animated coworker, Alan, explains.
“He said he shot out a prayer as he crossed, and a mighty wind moved through the pines, causing them to bend and make a big noise. So the soldiers turned, and focused their attention on the pines, and Mel Zelaya and crew could cross, unnoticed. He said it was a miracle…” Alan´s audience, over-devout Christians who thought it comical and ironic for any Honduran political figure to summon upon God and claim divine intervention, exploded.
“He was quoting a verse in Isaiah,” Marvin added, “Something about how God is always with you.”
Tickled, the office folk transitioned into a description of Mel´s current state where he decided to announce his return and is now sequestered, at the Brazilian embassy.
“Nobody can bring food in, they cut off the water, electricity, phone lines, he might as well be in prison.” Johnny reflected.
“They say a Venezuelan plane came in later,” Alan continued, “They came with Hugo Chavez, checked up on him and the plane left.”
A more left leaning newspaper, El Tiempo, which temporarily and often, was an ‘unreachable domain’ online, stated on behalf of Hugo Chavez, “We are behind you Mel, the Venezuelan army is ready to fight.”
Chavez´s close relationship with Manuel Zelaya has now become common knowledge, out in the open, so much, that Mel called Hugo Chavez´s cell phone when he arrived at the Brazilian embassy while Chavez was at an inauguration of a computer program for kids. Chavez was proud to announce to the audience Mel´s arrival in Honduras, to which most applauded. Chavez said he would be in Honduras to meet and discuss with other leaders the next day. It was as if they had planned it, and now only receiving pre-determined signals to know which move to make next.
Ecstatic about his return, Mel supporters rallied around the Brazilian embassy and extended their celebration into the streets, where a second grade student claimed they were charging a 100 Lempira ($5) fine to all who passed by at around 1:00p.m, when all the action was unfolding. This particular driver of this van of school children refused to pay the fine, and was eventually, strangely and gratefully passed through.
In predictable grip tightening fashion, Roberto Micheletti swiftly set a curfew (be at home or at least in your neighborhood) for 4:00pm at 3:30pm. The stated aim, “keep peace and prevent possible violence”. The hidden aim, “keep all Mel supporters from organizing and create a legitimate reason to punish them for doing so.” No action or dialogue even pursued much less resolved, Mel Zelaya still in the Brazilian embassy, Micheletti extended the curfew to 6am the next (Tuesday September 22) morning, and when that still wasn´t long enough extended it to 6pm Tuesday evening apparently that wasn´t long enough, so they extended it until 6am and then 6pm Wednesday.
On Tuesday morning, the from five am to seven pm bustling bus terminal was wanting of aggressive sing-songy sales pitches by cobradors and competing taxi drivers and the vehicles that made their shouts possible. The only vehicles seen were BMX bikes undersized for their owner doing figure eights and attempts at jumps, taking full advantage of their new found traffic free space. These were accompanied by the occasional motorcycle and the stagnant morning vegetable and afternoon cheese trucks. These determined to make a buck vendors join these pre-gang misfits in lounging with the news radio on full blast, simultaneously chiding them and all those within earshot to be astute and aware of the latest move of the dueling
presidents.
Upon nightfall, across the still vacant terminal at Nueva Suyapa´s own mini-market central, the owner is faced with the dual task of trying to sell his products while avoiding going scarce on the routinely delivered ones. His two co-workers/family members efficiently, professionally and hurriedly receive orders and collect products to be given to customers, shuffling through dirty bills and running to the cash stash to return change. They do this all with candles, as the routine crisis time power outage has lasted longer this night.
“The truck of products was due to come today; but with the situation like this, they wouldn’t let anybody go out of their prospective colonias to get anything or anybody come in to deliver anything.” He apologized to merchandise-hungry customers with a spelunking flashlight strapped to his forehead in the electricity starved dark.
“I heard they were even forcing some businesses to close downtown.” He explained to me after the ravenous crowd had left.
“Soon people are going to start raiding the stores. With all of this rising uncertainty, they’re going to get scared that they won’t be able to get food when they need it so they’re going to stock up.”
“Those who suffer are the people, while these guys sit around and decide whether or not to have dialogue,” He rightfully complains.
As I walked from one of the always stocked product depleting pulperias to the next, the dust packed road was almost empty, allowing it to haze into the city-plagued darkness above.
Pulperia #2, unlike #1, had candles for sale.
There, an old man with more gaps than browning teeth sprayed through them,
“32 injured at the Brazilian embassy off to Hospital Escuela. But, then again, those protestors, hooligans on both sides really, being paid off, and then when the police crackdown, eh, well, that is just another level of thug.”
Right before my eyes were the visible signs of “the people” growing disgruntled and losing faith in a “Honduras for Peace and Democracy”.
Many of them were behind and in front of me in the 65 person line at the pharmacy on Wednesday, when, due to all over outrage with the 30 hour curfew (toca de queda), that a local pro-interim government newspaper called a “toca de hambre” (Hunger Curfew), the interim government saw it necessary to give Hondurans at least a window to shop: between 10am and 4pm. Unsure of when this chance would come again, afraid the current government was going to continue to grip so tight their nails would start digging into the country, everyone that had the resources went out, waited in 500 people grocery store lines and bought. The parking lots to malls and grocery stores couldn’t fit the demand of parking space, nor the grocery stores themselves fit the customers, hence the lines. Gas stations and banks echoed in similar chaos. When we asked for a handful of money, the amount of $US1,500, the bank teller told us we had to wait for the money truck to come, which at 10:30a.m was just filling up.
“I never thought anything like this would ever happen my country. Never in my country!! Look at this craziness!!” Said an outraged middle aged woman waiting to buy her medicine whose teenage daughter, having apparently heard the spiel many a time before had contracted a sickness of her own that involved repetitive sighing.
“All because of these two power hungry men, who act like they need all of our freedom and money, we have to do crazy things like rush to the store all at the same time, wait in line, hoard what we can find,” she raised decibels, which inspired eye rolling in the already annoyed.
“Puppets, that’s all we are to them, being tossed and manipulated to their very whim. Is this entertaining to them? Their own sick form of fun!” she continues, defiant and pokerfaced to her daughter’s poor attempt at indirect communication.
Her daughters disease was not the only one newly infected, as booked psychologists and psychiatrists can testify and a rise in assaults and murders has displayed.
“The next step is a military state,” a friend informs me, “first comes the coup, then comes the curfew then the military state,” says one who has lived through the horrific transition from democracy to a dictatorship.
“I remember exactly how it was in the late 70’s, nobody is allowed to leave their house even within their own colonia or allowed to buy anything, like being under a country wide house arrest.”
And that is how it had already begun to feel, as, days later, Roberto Micheletti suspends a slew of civil liberties, including freedoms of the press and of assembly, an accustomed to various levels of abuse population braces themselves for the next blow, not even blinking as they crawl on the ground searching for their candles and matches on the eve of the 50th ‘unplanned’ power outage.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
An American Dream
San Pedro Sula Airport on the way to Houston, TX.
Universal Declaration of Human Rights Article 13:
(1) Everyone has the right to freedom of movement and residence within the borders of each state.
(2) Everyone has the right to leave any country, including his own, and to return to his country.
It has the look of a small but accessible airport: a major Honduran coffee chain “Espresso Aericano” and Wendy’s accomadating anyone’s fast food needs. There are lines, but they are not long like in major airports; passed through in a matter of minutes. An airport tax is necessitated, making tourists pay, as they should, for visiting the country. Spanish and American accented English are spoken interchangeably, and in that lies the difference. Honduran natives holding U.S passports are the majority population. This is the bilingual class of Honduras; fortunate enough to fly in and out of the U.S legally and freely.
No coyotes needed here.
If one were needed, he would cost $6,000 to navigate one’s way from Tegucigalpa to San Diego or El Paso for the chance of possibly safely traveling to and crossing the border, un-interferred. My plane ticket cost $250.
To those who have more will be given.
The life lottery that demands long labored savings has a concentrated burden on Latin America’s lower classes. Those who grew up with garbage as their backyard, unemployment as their job security and $5 a day as a decent wage hear only the success stories of those who shed their rags and aquired more then their fair share of riches on the other side and immediately begin dreaming up an escape plan. Stories of the thousands who lay waste in the desert or back where they started deported, or trading a free and relatively financially predictable existence to an incarcerated, fear based, authorities dodging one either remain untold or don’t sink in. A sign on a highway heading north in Guatemala tried to remind possible future immigrants of these facts. But, with civil war, coups and human rights violations as a history, death is simply a part of life, and therefore a risk one is willing to take against so much oral promise.
This Honduran U.S citizen looks after American children in the city of Houston. She’s lived in the U.S for twenty eight years, starting to out live her years spent in Honduras. She says at first it was hard, but she’s used to the change by now. As the plane lands in her new found home, a U.S native exclaims that he looks forward to a hot dog. A Honduran family talks about eating mashed potatoes.
TECHOS DE CARTÓN/Cardboard houses
Alli Primera
How, sad the rain is heard on cardboard roofs
how, sad my people live, in cardboard houses
the worker comes down almost dragging his feet
for the weight of suffering
you see, he has suffered much
you see, the suffer weights.
Above he leaves his pregnant wife
below is the town
and he gets lost, entangled
today is the same as yesterday,
In his life without tomorrow
"Here comes the rain!"
Here comes the suffering
But if it stops raining,
When will the suffering stop?
When will hope come?
children with the color of my land
with its same scars
millionaires of worms
that's why.
how sad the children live
in the cardboard houses
how, cheerful the dogs live
house of exploiter
you won't believe it
but there are schools for dogs
and they give them education
so that they don't bite newspapers
but, the boss
for many years
has been biting the worker
how, sad the rain is heard on cardboard roofs
how far hope is
in cardboard houses...
Techos de Carton
(Alí Primera)
Qué triste se oye la lluvia
en los techos de cartón;
qué triste vive mi gente
en las casas de cartón.
Viene bajando el obrero,
así, arrastrando los pasos
por el peso del sufrir;
mira qué mucho sufrir,
mira que pesa el sufrir.
Arriba deja la mujer preñada,
abajo está la ciudad,
y se pierde en su maraña;
hoy es lo mismo que ayer
en su vida sin mañana.
Cae, cae la lluvia,
viene, viene el sufrimiento,
pero si la lluvia pasa,
¿cuándo pasa el sufrimiento,
cuándo viene la esperanza?
Niños color de mi tierra
con sus mismas cicatrices,
millonarios de lombrices,
y por eso,
qué tristes viven los niños
en las casas de cartón,
y alegres viven los perros
casa del explotador.
Usted no lo va a creer,
pero hay escuelas de perros,
y les dan educación
pa'que no muerdan los diarios;
pero el patrón
hace años, muchos años,
que está mordiendo al obrero.
Qué triste se oye la lluvia
en las casas de cartón;
qué lejos pasa la esperanza
de los techos de cartón.
Universal Declaration of Human Rights Article 13:
(1) Everyone has the right to freedom of movement and residence within the borders of each state.
(2) Everyone has the right to leave any country, including his own, and to return to his country.
It has the look of a small but accessible airport: a major Honduran coffee chain “Espresso Aericano” and Wendy’s accomadating anyone’s fast food needs. There are lines, but they are not long like in major airports; passed through in a matter of minutes. An airport tax is necessitated, making tourists pay, as they should, for visiting the country. Spanish and American accented English are spoken interchangeably, and in that lies the difference. Honduran natives holding U.S passports are the majority population. This is the bilingual class of Honduras; fortunate enough to fly in and out of the U.S legally and freely.
No coyotes needed here.
If one were needed, he would cost $6,000 to navigate one’s way from Tegucigalpa to San Diego or El Paso for the chance of possibly safely traveling to and crossing the border, un-interferred. My plane ticket cost $250.
To those who have more will be given.
The life lottery that demands long labored savings has a concentrated burden on Latin America’s lower classes. Those who grew up with garbage as their backyard, unemployment as their job security and $5 a day as a decent wage hear only the success stories of those who shed their rags and aquired more then their fair share of riches on the other side and immediately begin dreaming up an escape plan. Stories of the thousands who lay waste in the desert or back where they started deported, or trading a free and relatively financially predictable existence to an incarcerated, fear based, authorities dodging one either remain untold or don’t sink in. A sign on a highway heading north in Guatemala tried to remind possible future immigrants of these facts. But, with civil war, coups and human rights violations as a history, death is simply a part of life, and therefore a risk one is willing to take against so much oral promise.
This Honduran U.S citizen looks after American children in the city of Houston. She’s lived in the U.S for twenty eight years, starting to out live her years spent in Honduras. She says at first it was hard, but she’s used to the change by now. As the plane lands in her new found home, a U.S native exclaims that he looks forward to a hot dog. A Honduran family talks about eating mashed potatoes.
TECHOS DE CARTÓN/Cardboard houses
Alli Primera
How, sad the rain is heard on cardboard roofs
how, sad my people live, in cardboard houses
the worker comes down almost dragging his feet
for the weight of suffering
you see, he has suffered much
you see, the suffer weights.
Above he leaves his pregnant wife
below is the town
and he gets lost, entangled
today is the same as yesterday,
In his life without tomorrow
"Here comes the rain!"
Here comes the suffering
But if it stops raining,
When will the suffering stop?
When will hope come?
children with the color of my land
with its same scars
millionaires of worms
that's why.
how sad the children live
in the cardboard houses
how, cheerful the dogs live
house of exploiter
you won't believe it
but there are schools for dogs
and they give them education
so that they don't bite newspapers
but, the boss
for many years
has been biting the worker
how, sad the rain is heard on cardboard roofs
how far hope is
in cardboard houses...
Techos de Carton
(Alí Primera)
Qué triste se oye la lluvia
en los techos de cartón;
qué triste vive mi gente
en las casas de cartón.
Viene bajando el obrero,
así, arrastrando los pasos
por el peso del sufrir;
mira qué mucho sufrir,
mira que pesa el sufrir.
Arriba deja la mujer preñada,
abajo está la ciudad,
y se pierde en su maraña;
hoy es lo mismo que ayer
en su vida sin mañana.
Cae, cae la lluvia,
viene, viene el sufrimiento,
pero si la lluvia pasa,
¿cuándo pasa el sufrimiento,
cuándo viene la esperanza?
Niños color de mi tierra
con sus mismas cicatrices,
millonarios de lombrices,
y por eso,
qué tristes viven los niños
en las casas de cartón,
y alegres viven los perros
casa del explotador.
Usted no lo va a creer,
pero hay escuelas de perros,
y les dan educación
pa'que no muerdan los diarios;
pero el patrón
hace años, muchos años,
que está mordiendo al obrero.
Qué triste se oye la lluvia
en las casas de cartón;
qué lejos pasa la esperanza
de los techos de cartón.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Halfed
Halfed
Nueva Suyapa is a slum neighborhood on the side of a mountain on the outskirts of the city of Tegucigalpa in Honduras. It is a neighborhood infamous for its high crime, teen pregnancy and high school drop out rates.One room houses for families of five is the norm. Though most houses are securely structured, some are pieced together by random material lying around. The average education of adult inhabitants is below sixth grade. It is on this scene that this dialogue is set.
Hernan popped up in the same uneventful way he did the day Micheal Jackson died;
“They kidnapped the president,” he says; eyes climbing to his forehead stopping just before they reach it, roofed by raised eyebrows that contain the bulk of his surprise, finished off with a long stare that attempts to cause and assess the reaction in the recipient.
“Yes” I say in my equally unemotional manner. I had been woken up to a phone call that informed me of the news, so all of my shock lay in my initial response.
“They shut the power off in the whole city at 7:00am.” he continued in the same way.
Outside kids and adults are attending to their usual pulperia runs; participating in a buzz of a higher magnitude than usual.
“They say he is in the States,” Hernan comments to a passer-by that stopped to discuss the matter.
Having grown accustomed to his unwarranted fixation on the States, and his tendency to relay faulty information, I don’t believe that end of it. Despite that, my ears remain sponge-like;
“A ton of soldiers are surrounding the Presidential palace.”
“If you look on the TV, you’ll see right there, hundreds, kind of scary.”
“They made Zelaya leave by gunpoint.”
“How they did it was really well organized, up to Zelaya’s body guard, all were in on it. Shows how few people supported him.”
It is true, the plan was genius, seamlessly, bloodlessly and efficiently executed; something to cause at least a fraction of concern.
“I’m happy this happened, the people weren’t in agreement, so the people acted, that is democracy, not all of this stuff about changing the constitution.”
“Ya, I wasn’t going to go to the vote anyway,” comments the stranger
“Me neither.” Hernan agrees.
On Sunday a ballot was organized, called the “Cuarta Urna” to decide whether Manual Zelaya could add a referendum to the constitution which would extend his term limits. The constitution is very sacred to Hondurans, who fought hard to freely create it. The warping, bending and rewriting of the constitution is part of an ugly past that most Hondurans do not want to revisit. Changing firm articles, with which presidential term limits were a part, is illegal. The Supreme Court, Congress and Army were all against this possible change, resulting in Manuel Zelaya firing his chief of defense staff.
“It’s all due to this Chavez guy, he’s wanting to make Honduras communist like Cuba and Venezuela, we can’t have our liberties stolen like that, we have to have freedom.” Charly, overhearing the conversation on his frequent walk past the house, chimes in.
“They say in those communist countries everybody makes the same amount, regardless of what you do, that’s not fair,” He continues.
“Ya, in Venezuela, they are taking the land away from those who own it and giving it to those they think need it,” the stranger makes sure he maintains his place in the conversation.
“Exactly, they would come and say,’ you have two rooms and only need one, now you have to give it to a poor person!’” Hernan indignates
“Ya, rights, property, being taken away just like that, we can’t have that.” All are in agreement.
Honduras had recently signed the Venezuelan initiated ALBA charter which granted Honduras the entry into supposedly free and fair trade initiatives in order to “enhance political and economic trade ties” between other left leaning Latin American countries. The initiative has been criticized by left and right alike for its socialist tendencies. Benefits for Honduras included fuel at market price and $15 million in development aid. Honduran’s first visible sign of the benefits of this aid were environmentally friendly long lasting light bulbs that were donated to Honduran households. Many are now wondering what will happen to this aid, and especially fuel, if the removal of Manuel Zelaya sticks. However, it looks like removing Honduras from ALBA is the least of Honduras’ problems regarding Chavez at the moment.
“I agree with Zelaya raising the minimum wage, but changing the constitution, that’s crazy. He’s just power hungry, we can’t have a person like that running the country. It’s dangerous.”
“Exactly, he wanted to do the same thing that Chavez did in Venezuela, just a puppet of Chavez, will he do whatever he tells him?”
“Ya, right, becoming Hondurans own despot out to defeat the U.S with Chavez and friends.”
Chavez had recently extended his term limits from five to six years in Venezuela due to a very close ballot on the matter, extending even longer his going on ten year reign. Other ALBA member countries have been attempting the same.
Hernan continues to listen to the radio that’s been glued to his ears since three in the morning, when he was sleeping.
“OK, it’s now confirmed that the armed forces have Mel Zelaya in Costa Rica.” Hernan once again reports.
Conversation lulls, electricity returns and we are redirected to the television where the Congress begins to speak. The armed forces suspended electricity, blocked phone lines and censored channels such as CNN to limit communication and possible uprisings and ensure control before the Congress had the chance to meet.
Back in the Congress hall, the representatives are in agreement with Hernan and his neighbors,
“We cannot have a President of this state disobey the Constitution; we must have democracy here in Honduras. This is the consequence for attempting illegal activity!” says a defiant man with slicked black hair and glasses.
All applaud, out-pounding the slew of Constitutional rights they were simultaneously suspending.
“We must defend the constitution and the law, and anyone trying to steal what we as Hondurans believe in, must be stopped.”
Further applause and similar statements subdue.
Now it is time for the vote of the expulsion of Manuel Zelaya. Everyone raises their hands. It’s like they all were in this together. Roberto Micheletti reads the authenticity-to-be-confirmed resignation letter of Manuel Zelaya, and with the tap of a hat Manuel Zelaya is no longer president of Honduras.
“This country will not be without a President.” Congress echoes.
They then explained that because Vice President Elvin Santos resigned, and the head of the Armed forces was recently fired, the next in line to be President is Roberto Micheletti, the Speaker of the Congress.
They pursue the proclaimed necessary routine to make Micheletti president, reading pages upon pages of higher languaged (a.k.a indecipherable by the average illiterate lay man) official inaugaration papers. It seemed the reader was bored himself by the material. Like a high strung salesmen who convinces the unquestioning client that all the written material is a boring waste of time, “So just sign here”, Micheletti and his Congress friends lulled to sleep passive but loyal uneducated Hondurans leading them to sign the life of their country away for the next six months. This all happened within a matter of hours, a speed unheard of in the Honduran government.
Micheletti begins to talk:
“What happened was not a coup, it was a necessary procedure following the law to restore order in this country.”
He hides the meticulous long labored planning for the event, failing to mention that forcing a President out of their house and to another country is also highly illegal and dangerous. Coups and political instability were common in Central America post revolution, the last of which was in 1993 in Guatemala.
“Exactly!” says Hernan, agreeing with all that the Congress and TV is feeding him.
This seems like a common trend for the average low-income Honduran citizen who doesn’t cause trouble and whose only source of information is Honduran news. The slant of the paper can be noted in the title for a pro-Micheletti rally: “Honduras against Illegality.” The biggest crime committed by Honduran papers and news sources in this crisis was the leaving out. I was unaware until two days later of the riots which killed two protesters, injured thirty six and was filled with tear gas and rioters throwing rocks; the ugly side of Honduras that they didn’t want to admit even to its own citizens. The reason: promote the facade that all of Honduras was calm in order to prevent possible uprisings and backlash.
That night the existent divisiveness of the country was evident:
“Mel only wanted to know what the people thought and was asking the people to cast a vote to express these thoughts. He wasn’t going to do anything more,” said Mario who, having had the influence of higher education was more aligned with his left leaning professors.
“Well then it was not well communicated, because the people thought he was taking away their rights and was going to change the constitution,” said Karen who was on Hernan’s side, but had graduated to the ability to think for herself.
“Mel is a man for the poor people of Honduras,” continues Mario, unaware of his growing allegiance to the man.
“Are you poor?” he asks Hernan.
“No,” Hernan replies.
“But were you poor?” he fishes.
“Yes.”
“And how did you change?”
“By working hard.”
“Exactly, that’s how the poor man lifts himself out of poverty. By raising the minimum wage, Mel was supporting the working man in Honduras.”
“That whole raising of the minimum wage was just a way to get people to vote for ALBA, and it worked.” Hernan fights back.
“No, it was for the people, Mel cares about the people, but Micheletti and his stooges, I don’t think so. There are about 300 families that run this country, that own all of the major businesses. They don’t want the minimum wage being raised because it affects their profits. This was their master plan to help themselves through Micheletti and hurt the poor man.”
“I don’t know, sounds kind of crazy to me. How could extending term limits help the people? That’s what I want to know, the direction he was going in wasn’t democracy, how can anything but democracy help the people?” responds Hernan, unused to being challenged by left wing rhetoric.
“But what about what Micheletti is after? Doesn’t seem to have the best track record himself,” I try to chime in.
“Ya, its true. Look; in politics in Honduras, they’re all thugs and thieves, that’s a given, but I’d rather a predictable thug that than an unpredictable freedom thief.” An overzealous Charly charismatically attempts to use his personality and choice of words to convince, starting to sound like a stubborn Republican from the U.S.
“What Zelaya was going to do was bring Venezuela and all its crazy communist laws to
Honduras, we just can’t have that. Do you want that?”
Conversation raises a couple of decibels as both sides, assuming opposing viewpoints from the other, try to out-load political ammunition and shoot at the same time.
Both, too impassioned to even recognize the other’s weapon in hand don’t even attempt to dodge, dismantling the delicately formulated opinion of the other before it even reaches them.
Trying to diffuse the fire, a friend of Mario's starts a side conversation on how it is all in God’s hands, and we shouldn’t worry or argue; that Jesus said the poor will always be with you. Allison, off in the corner, overwhelmed with all the simultaneous conversation, doesn’t know who to follow or believe, and slips off into the back room. Later she tells me she’s glad Mel is gone.
On the TV a lawyer calls for respectful dialogue; Obama chides the same.
This possibility is pursued at my work place, where slightly more informed individuals chime in,
“Ya, I’m not much for Micheletti or Zelaya, they’re both delinquents.” My boss begins the conversation.
“Ya, Micheletti is a coke addict and trafficker.” A co-worker adds.
“Exactly, trying to get his piece of the pie. What I don’t like about this whole thing is the way they did it all, it was unnecessary and illegal.” My boss makes clear his position.
“They could have waited and brought him to court sensibly, why’d they need a coup?”
“And if all was legal, why did they have to bring him to another country, they could have tried him peacefully here,” said a lawyer who earlier commented that she had no opinion on the matter.
“Ya, makes you wonder if something else wasn’t behind it; a little questionable.”
“You know what I say: the US is behind it, they were getting scared with Zelaya chumming up to Chavez and all.”
“Ya the U.S, acting all diplomatic and such, not reducing aid yet”
With US’s former tendency to help in ousting any potential left leaning leader in Central America, and their loyal support and training of the Honduran army, I understood my co-workers’ sentiments, but thought the possibility highly unlikely. Honduras had seemed to convict the US of many ills and accomplishments in which they had not participated; the assumed savior and arch oppressor simultaneously. A dependent relationship at the stage of teenage angst, at fault: its self proclaimed parents.
The conversation was then reduced to making fun of the political rivals. Both Mel and Micheletti had now become easy ways to get a quick laugh around the office, like the age of Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. The change, history, settled in, announces its thorough affects when it makes its way down to the bone of children’s rhymes and games. Jokes are not too far from that reality.
Back at the house I am reminded by Hernan that Zelaya may come back Thursday,
“He’s coming accompanied with U.S support,” he says.
Rumors, and gossip with which this neighborhood are experts, wasn’t about to escape this situation; a way to fill in the news gaps.
Diana, Hernan’s daughter, begins to explain how in Venezuela, children at three years old are taken from their homes and forced into state owned nurseries where they are raised to be soldiers, and that Zelaya was on his way to doing the same in Honduras.
Glad to end the topic, Hernan’s partner, that they call La Chavela, is much more emotionally charged about a situation that involved Diana’s child, her five month old granddaughter in the past week.
With this I begin to realize the different levels of news, and the degree of impact each level has on a regular Honduran family. There’s the news that one's daughter’s five month old baby accidentally fell to the ground, provoking an in the chest fear.
The news that a friend with a fractured leg is hurting, causing one to immediately come running. Then, the news that one's President was just rid of his post, which off-settles one for awhile until it becomes back round information to food on the table; only to come back into the spotlight when it threatens that inner close to home level. We are all hoping that doesn’t become a reality.
Over a week later, Allison comes home at 9:00a.m still a school uniformed expectant, again; without given the opportunity of classes. They say schools are going to stay closed until Mel Zelaya comes home.
In the community the same story is retold; a single mother with two children, one deaf and sick often, laments that she hasn’t been able to sell tortillas, her lifeblood, since the crisis began. She at the moment is depending on the good will of her neighbors and friends.
A taxi driver friend complains the same, ridership has gone down since the crisis began, people more afraid to go downtown where the protests are.
Weeks later, my flight from Houston to Honduras had numerous rows that were totally empty. The tourist town of the Copan Ruins, usually swarming with tourists during the peak of the summer mirrors the airplane seats.
Now that the Honduras crisis has been removed from what the BBC calls news, Hondurans are left to deal with dual wars competing: the sudden waging political one and the constant scraping by one which has just reached another kind of unthinkable level due to curfews and anticipated danger.
Chavez’s lightbulbs still blaze on the rich and the poor.
Nueva Suyapa is a slum neighborhood on the side of a mountain on the outskirts of the city of Tegucigalpa in Honduras. It is a neighborhood infamous for its high crime, teen pregnancy and high school drop out rates.One room houses for families of five is the norm. Though most houses are securely structured, some are pieced together by random material lying around. The average education of adult inhabitants is below sixth grade. It is on this scene that this dialogue is set.
Hernan popped up in the same uneventful way he did the day Micheal Jackson died;
“They kidnapped the president,” he says; eyes climbing to his forehead stopping just before they reach it, roofed by raised eyebrows that contain the bulk of his surprise, finished off with a long stare that attempts to cause and assess the reaction in the recipient.
“Yes” I say in my equally unemotional manner. I had been woken up to a phone call that informed me of the news, so all of my shock lay in my initial response.
“They shut the power off in the whole city at 7:00am.” he continued in the same way.
Outside kids and adults are attending to their usual pulperia runs; participating in a buzz of a higher magnitude than usual.
“They say he is in the States,” Hernan comments to a passer-by that stopped to discuss the matter.
Having grown accustomed to his unwarranted fixation on the States, and his tendency to relay faulty information, I don’t believe that end of it. Despite that, my ears remain sponge-like;
“A ton of soldiers are surrounding the Presidential palace.”
“If you look on the TV, you’ll see right there, hundreds, kind of scary.”
“They made Zelaya leave by gunpoint.”
“How they did it was really well organized, up to Zelaya’s body guard, all were in on it. Shows how few people supported him.”
It is true, the plan was genius, seamlessly, bloodlessly and efficiently executed; something to cause at least a fraction of concern.
“I’m happy this happened, the people weren’t in agreement, so the people acted, that is democracy, not all of this stuff about changing the constitution.”
“Ya, I wasn’t going to go to the vote anyway,” comments the stranger
“Me neither.” Hernan agrees.
On Sunday a ballot was organized, called the “Cuarta Urna” to decide whether Manual Zelaya could add a referendum to the constitution which would extend his term limits. The constitution is very sacred to Hondurans, who fought hard to freely create it. The warping, bending and rewriting of the constitution is part of an ugly past that most Hondurans do not want to revisit. Changing firm articles, with which presidential term limits were a part, is illegal. The Supreme Court, Congress and Army were all against this possible change, resulting in Manuel Zelaya firing his chief of defense staff.
“It’s all due to this Chavez guy, he’s wanting to make Honduras communist like Cuba and Venezuela, we can’t have our liberties stolen like that, we have to have freedom.” Charly, overhearing the conversation on his frequent walk past the house, chimes in.
“They say in those communist countries everybody makes the same amount, regardless of what you do, that’s not fair,” He continues.
“Ya, in Venezuela, they are taking the land away from those who own it and giving it to those they think need it,” the stranger makes sure he maintains his place in the conversation.
“Exactly, they would come and say,’ you have two rooms and only need one, now you have to give it to a poor person!’” Hernan indignates
“Ya, rights, property, being taken away just like that, we can’t have that.” All are in agreement.
Honduras had recently signed the Venezuelan initiated ALBA charter which granted Honduras the entry into supposedly free and fair trade initiatives in order to “enhance political and economic trade ties” between other left leaning Latin American countries. The initiative has been criticized by left and right alike for its socialist tendencies. Benefits for Honduras included fuel at market price and $15 million in development aid. Honduran’s first visible sign of the benefits of this aid were environmentally friendly long lasting light bulbs that were donated to Honduran households. Many are now wondering what will happen to this aid, and especially fuel, if the removal of Manuel Zelaya sticks. However, it looks like removing Honduras from ALBA is the least of Honduras’ problems regarding Chavez at the moment.
“I agree with Zelaya raising the minimum wage, but changing the constitution, that’s crazy. He’s just power hungry, we can’t have a person like that running the country. It’s dangerous.”
“Exactly, he wanted to do the same thing that Chavez did in Venezuela, just a puppet of Chavez, will he do whatever he tells him?”
“Ya, right, becoming Hondurans own despot out to defeat the U.S with Chavez and friends.”
Chavez had recently extended his term limits from five to six years in Venezuela due to a very close ballot on the matter, extending even longer his going on ten year reign. Other ALBA member countries have been attempting the same.
Hernan continues to listen to the radio that’s been glued to his ears since three in the morning, when he was sleeping.
“OK, it’s now confirmed that the armed forces have Mel Zelaya in Costa Rica.” Hernan once again reports.
Conversation lulls, electricity returns and we are redirected to the television where the Congress begins to speak. The armed forces suspended electricity, blocked phone lines and censored channels such as CNN to limit communication and possible uprisings and ensure control before the Congress had the chance to meet.
Back in the Congress hall, the representatives are in agreement with Hernan and his neighbors,
“We cannot have a President of this state disobey the Constitution; we must have democracy here in Honduras. This is the consequence for attempting illegal activity!” says a defiant man with slicked black hair and glasses.
All applaud, out-pounding the slew of Constitutional rights they were simultaneously suspending.
“We must defend the constitution and the law, and anyone trying to steal what we as Hondurans believe in, must be stopped.”
Further applause and similar statements subdue.
Now it is time for the vote of the expulsion of Manuel Zelaya. Everyone raises their hands. It’s like they all were in this together. Roberto Micheletti reads the authenticity-to-be-confirmed resignation letter of Manuel Zelaya, and with the tap of a hat Manuel Zelaya is no longer president of Honduras.
“This country will not be without a President.” Congress echoes.
They then explained that because Vice President Elvin Santos resigned, and the head of the Armed forces was recently fired, the next in line to be President is Roberto Micheletti, the Speaker of the Congress.
They pursue the proclaimed necessary routine to make Micheletti president, reading pages upon pages of higher languaged (a.k.a indecipherable by the average illiterate lay man) official inaugaration papers. It seemed the reader was bored himself by the material. Like a high strung salesmen who convinces the unquestioning client that all the written material is a boring waste of time, “So just sign here”, Micheletti and his Congress friends lulled to sleep passive but loyal uneducated Hondurans leading them to sign the life of their country away for the next six months. This all happened within a matter of hours, a speed unheard of in the Honduran government.
Micheletti begins to talk:
“What happened was not a coup, it was a necessary procedure following the law to restore order in this country.”
He hides the meticulous long labored planning for the event, failing to mention that forcing a President out of their house and to another country is also highly illegal and dangerous. Coups and political instability were common in Central America post revolution, the last of which was in 1993 in Guatemala.
“Exactly!” says Hernan, agreeing with all that the Congress and TV is feeding him.
This seems like a common trend for the average low-income Honduran citizen who doesn’t cause trouble and whose only source of information is Honduran news. The slant of the paper can be noted in the title for a pro-Micheletti rally: “Honduras against Illegality.” The biggest crime committed by Honduran papers and news sources in this crisis was the leaving out. I was unaware until two days later of the riots which killed two protesters, injured thirty six and was filled with tear gas and rioters throwing rocks; the ugly side of Honduras that they didn’t want to admit even to its own citizens. The reason: promote the facade that all of Honduras was calm in order to prevent possible uprisings and backlash.
That night the existent divisiveness of the country was evident:
“Mel only wanted to know what the people thought and was asking the people to cast a vote to express these thoughts. He wasn’t going to do anything more,” said Mario who, having had the influence of higher education was more aligned with his left leaning professors.
“Well then it was not well communicated, because the people thought he was taking away their rights and was going to change the constitution,” said Karen who was on Hernan’s side, but had graduated to the ability to think for herself.
“Mel is a man for the poor people of Honduras,” continues Mario, unaware of his growing allegiance to the man.
“Are you poor?” he asks Hernan.
“No,” Hernan replies.
“But were you poor?” he fishes.
“Yes.”
“And how did you change?”
“By working hard.”
“Exactly, that’s how the poor man lifts himself out of poverty. By raising the minimum wage, Mel was supporting the working man in Honduras.”
“That whole raising of the minimum wage was just a way to get people to vote for ALBA, and it worked.” Hernan fights back.
“No, it was for the people, Mel cares about the people, but Micheletti and his stooges, I don’t think so. There are about 300 families that run this country, that own all of the major businesses. They don’t want the minimum wage being raised because it affects their profits. This was their master plan to help themselves through Micheletti and hurt the poor man.”
“I don’t know, sounds kind of crazy to me. How could extending term limits help the people? That’s what I want to know, the direction he was going in wasn’t democracy, how can anything but democracy help the people?” responds Hernan, unused to being challenged by left wing rhetoric.
“But what about what Micheletti is after? Doesn’t seem to have the best track record himself,” I try to chime in.
“Ya, its true. Look; in politics in Honduras, they’re all thugs and thieves, that’s a given, but I’d rather a predictable thug that than an unpredictable freedom thief.” An overzealous Charly charismatically attempts to use his personality and choice of words to convince, starting to sound like a stubborn Republican from the U.S.
“What Zelaya was going to do was bring Venezuela and all its crazy communist laws to
Honduras, we just can’t have that. Do you want that?”
Conversation raises a couple of decibels as both sides, assuming opposing viewpoints from the other, try to out-load political ammunition and shoot at the same time.
Both, too impassioned to even recognize the other’s weapon in hand don’t even attempt to dodge, dismantling the delicately formulated opinion of the other before it even reaches them.
Trying to diffuse the fire, a friend of Mario's starts a side conversation on how it is all in God’s hands, and we shouldn’t worry or argue; that Jesus said the poor will always be with you. Allison, off in the corner, overwhelmed with all the simultaneous conversation, doesn’t know who to follow or believe, and slips off into the back room. Later she tells me she’s glad Mel is gone.
On the TV a lawyer calls for respectful dialogue; Obama chides the same.
This possibility is pursued at my work place, where slightly more informed individuals chime in,
“Ya, I’m not much for Micheletti or Zelaya, they’re both delinquents.” My boss begins the conversation.
“Ya, Micheletti is a coke addict and trafficker.” A co-worker adds.
“Exactly, trying to get his piece of the pie. What I don’t like about this whole thing is the way they did it all, it was unnecessary and illegal.” My boss makes clear his position.
“They could have waited and brought him to court sensibly, why’d they need a coup?”
“And if all was legal, why did they have to bring him to another country, they could have tried him peacefully here,” said a lawyer who earlier commented that she had no opinion on the matter.
“Ya, makes you wonder if something else wasn’t behind it; a little questionable.”
“You know what I say: the US is behind it, they were getting scared with Zelaya chumming up to Chavez and all.”
“Ya the U.S, acting all diplomatic and such, not reducing aid yet”
With US’s former tendency to help in ousting any potential left leaning leader in Central America, and their loyal support and training of the Honduran army, I understood my co-workers’ sentiments, but thought the possibility highly unlikely. Honduras had seemed to convict the US of many ills and accomplishments in which they had not participated; the assumed savior and arch oppressor simultaneously. A dependent relationship at the stage of teenage angst, at fault: its self proclaimed parents.
The conversation was then reduced to making fun of the political rivals. Both Mel and Micheletti had now become easy ways to get a quick laugh around the office, like the age of Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. The change, history, settled in, announces its thorough affects when it makes its way down to the bone of children’s rhymes and games. Jokes are not too far from that reality.
Back at the house I am reminded by Hernan that Zelaya may come back Thursday,
“He’s coming accompanied with U.S support,” he says.
Rumors, and gossip with which this neighborhood are experts, wasn’t about to escape this situation; a way to fill in the news gaps.
Diana, Hernan’s daughter, begins to explain how in Venezuela, children at three years old are taken from their homes and forced into state owned nurseries where they are raised to be soldiers, and that Zelaya was on his way to doing the same in Honduras.
Glad to end the topic, Hernan’s partner, that they call La Chavela, is much more emotionally charged about a situation that involved Diana’s child, her five month old granddaughter in the past week.
With this I begin to realize the different levels of news, and the degree of impact each level has on a regular Honduran family. There’s the news that one's daughter’s five month old baby accidentally fell to the ground, provoking an in the chest fear.
The news that a friend with a fractured leg is hurting, causing one to immediately come running. Then, the news that one's President was just rid of his post, which off-settles one for awhile until it becomes back round information to food on the table; only to come back into the spotlight when it threatens that inner close to home level. We are all hoping that doesn’t become a reality.
Over a week later, Allison comes home at 9:00a.m still a school uniformed expectant, again; without given the opportunity of classes. They say schools are going to stay closed until Mel Zelaya comes home.
In the community the same story is retold; a single mother with two children, one deaf and sick often, laments that she hasn’t been able to sell tortillas, her lifeblood, since the crisis began. She at the moment is depending on the good will of her neighbors and friends.
A taxi driver friend complains the same, ridership has gone down since the crisis began, people more afraid to go downtown where the protests are.
Weeks later, my flight from Houston to Honduras had numerous rows that were totally empty. The tourist town of the Copan Ruins, usually swarming with tourists during the peak of the summer mirrors the airplane seats.
Now that the Honduras crisis has been removed from what the BBC calls news, Hondurans are left to deal with dual wars competing: the sudden waging political one and the constant scraping by one which has just reached another kind of unthinkable level due to curfews and anticipated danger.
Chavez’s lightbulbs still blaze on the rich and the poor.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
On the House
I sit here, not so unsimiliarly than the ones with whom I live; stuffed up in the house because of some form of pain, mine is physical, a leg fracture, while theirs is a more ingrained undetectable mental sort. I, like my sisters here, soothe myself into a type of imagined paradise with sweet music as loud as it will go. We sing to it at times when it seems no one is listening. Maria uses a microphone, unashamed of her acquired vocal ability. I am pretty sure, though it has not been proven, that they dance as well while sweeping, I hope with the broom as a partner; which isn’t unpopular around where I’m from either. I saw them dancing at a wedding a little while ago but was too shy to join them as my skills weren’t close to their accelerated ones.
The music I am listening to has been self-classified as neo-soul; while theirs, though it does reach their soul, is a bit of a distance from mine. The point is it makes us feel, long for a love we never had, and writhe about that bad break-up that we never let materialize enough to exist. “What might have been lost” repeats on my computer, answered by “Don’t Bother Me” as “Te Amo” (I love you) repeated on their stereo overshadows it; answered by “Yo no tengo la culpa” (It’s not my fault… An innocent six year old had recently aided me in the full run of these words when he was show-casing his singing skills to me. I don’t doubt anyone’s unintended passive ability to memorize the words as houses and buses seem to frequently swap blasted repeats of the hit). Both songs in their plainly stated or escoteric ways represent a basic human need to be loved well and to love well; or the excruciating loneliness of one never experiencing it. I begin to wonder which camp I am in, aching the latter, looking forward to the former. I imagine those who share these walls with me feel the same, hearts similar to my fractured leg, not aware of the degree of pain, and the amount of their own personal strength until proven broken.
Voices pass; accompanied by the clodding of feet catching up with passer byer's bodies as they race down the hill in front of my house. I even recognize someone crutching by; realizing that will be me in a day or two. Conversations vary, from the morning usual “Apurrense” (Hurry Up) to the evening round of pulperia requests. Children playing soccer and a group of men playing gambling join this chorus. It is further accompanied by cocks crowing (at all hours of the day), buses honking, moto’s humming, construction workers nailing, dog’s roaring, geckos singing, children laughing and base bumping. However, all of this is simply backround singing to the walking sales women’s guttural solo: “Huevos, Huevos! Zanahoria! Huevos!” (Eggs, Eggs, Carrots, Eggs… It is very often an odd combination such as this, actually, it’s usually much stranger, like bed coverings and knives). It is the walking store that comes right to your house, Honduras’s version of an ice-cream man, only there’s more variety, and its stuff you can actually use. I see this as a smart business move similar to the pulperia phenomenon that I will talk about in detail later. Pulperia’s are small stores, kind of like convenient stores that, just like convenient stores are on every corner and have needed and random items, the variety of which depends on the success of the business. The walking salesmen are those with a smaller inventory who seemed to realize their businesses were suffering because their clients, the women of the community, were stationed in their houses, so they did what any good business person would do, and came to them.
Potential house guests have realized and done the same. I too can now only be a passive recipient. These visitors come and go, beginning as early as 6:30 in the morning and ending around 8:00 at night. The guests bring gifts: mangoes, origami paper, dvd’s, cake, paints and paint brushes. They may also receive gifts, coffee and sweet bread (café con pan), lunch or of course, coke. They stay as long as they can or see fit, we ride on the wave of their whim.
The rain is more predictable than the visitors, as it comes between three or four each day, though my mama said she could tell it would come early today because it was really hot right off the bat, and around 11:00 in came the trickles. This rain ranges from sprinkles to near torrential downpours, causing mostly un-umbrella-ed individuals to either wait it out or make a run for it. That’s not an option for me, so I just sit and notice the thousands of pings on the hundreds of aluminum roofs around me, an orchestra dominated by bassier triangles. As predictable as this rain is it always seems to outsmart me, and the moment I begin to turn on the fan due to the uncomfortable heat, it begins to cool down due to the rain. Ahh, my mama’s logic makes sense. She is much more attuned to the movements of the rain than I am, as her learned life’s work depends on it. “The sun’s out early today, I’m going to take advantage and do some washing,” she often says on a particularly hot day, “before it rains and we won’t be able to hang the clothes on the line.” She continues in this manner for each necessary action, carefully planning ahead for any possible setbacks, such as her children sleeping in late reducing the amount of dishes that would be washed in the morning. Evidence of a good businesswoman never given or taken the chance imposed on her household.
“Julia came in at 12 last night from work, I’m so tired. I got up early to make tortillas. Well, Maria’s sweeping, so I’ll change your sheets. We’ll see what I’ll make for lunch today.”
With precision, efficiency and utmost cleanliness they scour every inch of each plate, scrub the spots and anything living out of every piece of clothing, and dust every mantel piece, including the ornament with the dolphin hitting a ball.
They all say they don’t mind being “imprisoned” In the house all day. As long as their husband/dad isn’t there to limit liberties, they say they rather like it. My mama says there is always something more to do, she keeps busy and that they get out more now than she used to be able to before. Which is true, her and Julia have been going to the market more often. Maria says she enjoys being able to play music when she wants to. Julia is working at a local supermarket chain and discovering a new freedom in that.
The music I am listening to has been self-classified as neo-soul; while theirs, though it does reach their soul, is a bit of a distance from mine. The point is it makes us feel, long for a love we never had, and writhe about that bad break-up that we never let materialize enough to exist. “What might have been lost” repeats on my computer, answered by “Don’t Bother Me” as “Te Amo” (I love you) repeated on their stereo overshadows it; answered by “Yo no tengo la culpa” (It’s not my fault… An innocent six year old had recently aided me in the full run of these words when he was show-casing his singing skills to me. I don’t doubt anyone’s unintended passive ability to memorize the words as houses and buses seem to frequently swap blasted repeats of the hit). Both songs in their plainly stated or escoteric ways represent a basic human need to be loved well and to love well; or the excruciating loneliness of one never experiencing it. I begin to wonder which camp I am in, aching the latter, looking forward to the former. I imagine those who share these walls with me feel the same, hearts similar to my fractured leg, not aware of the degree of pain, and the amount of their own personal strength until proven broken.
Voices pass; accompanied by the clodding of feet catching up with passer byer's bodies as they race down the hill in front of my house. I even recognize someone crutching by; realizing that will be me in a day or two. Conversations vary, from the morning usual “Apurrense” (Hurry Up) to the evening round of pulperia requests. Children playing soccer and a group of men playing gambling join this chorus. It is further accompanied by cocks crowing (at all hours of the day), buses honking, moto’s humming, construction workers nailing, dog’s roaring, geckos singing, children laughing and base bumping. However, all of this is simply backround singing to the walking sales women’s guttural solo: “Huevos, Huevos! Zanahoria! Huevos!” (Eggs, Eggs, Carrots, Eggs… It is very often an odd combination such as this, actually, it’s usually much stranger, like bed coverings and knives). It is the walking store that comes right to your house, Honduras’s version of an ice-cream man, only there’s more variety, and its stuff you can actually use. I see this as a smart business move similar to the pulperia phenomenon that I will talk about in detail later. Pulperia’s are small stores, kind of like convenient stores that, just like convenient stores are on every corner and have needed and random items, the variety of which depends on the success of the business. The walking salesmen are those with a smaller inventory who seemed to realize their businesses were suffering because their clients, the women of the community, were stationed in their houses, so they did what any good business person would do, and came to them.
Potential house guests have realized and done the same. I too can now only be a passive recipient. These visitors come and go, beginning as early as 6:30 in the morning and ending around 8:00 at night. The guests bring gifts: mangoes, origami paper, dvd’s, cake, paints and paint brushes. They may also receive gifts, coffee and sweet bread (café con pan), lunch or of course, coke. They stay as long as they can or see fit, we ride on the wave of their whim.
The rain is more predictable than the visitors, as it comes between three or four each day, though my mama said she could tell it would come early today because it was really hot right off the bat, and around 11:00 in came the trickles. This rain ranges from sprinkles to near torrential downpours, causing mostly un-umbrella-ed individuals to either wait it out or make a run for it. That’s not an option for me, so I just sit and notice the thousands of pings on the hundreds of aluminum roofs around me, an orchestra dominated by bassier triangles. As predictable as this rain is it always seems to outsmart me, and the moment I begin to turn on the fan due to the uncomfortable heat, it begins to cool down due to the rain. Ahh, my mama’s logic makes sense. She is much more attuned to the movements of the rain than I am, as her learned life’s work depends on it. “The sun’s out early today, I’m going to take advantage and do some washing,” she often says on a particularly hot day, “before it rains and we won’t be able to hang the clothes on the line.” She continues in this manner for each necessary action, carefully planning ahead for any possible setbacks, such as her children sleeping in late reducing the amount of dishes that would be washed in the morning. Evidence of a good businesswoman never given or taken the chance imposed on her household.
“Julia came in at 12 last night from work, I’m so tired. I got up early to make tortillas. Well, Maria’s sweeping, so I’ll change your sheets. We’ll see what I’ll make for lunch today.”
With precision, efficiency and utmost cleanliness they scour every inch of each plate, scrub the spots and anything living out of every piece of clothing, and dust every mantel piece, including the ornament with the dolphin hitting a ball.
They all say they don’t mind being “imprisoned” In the house all day. As long as their husband/dad isn’t there to limit liberties, they say they rather like it. My mama says there is always something more to do, she keeps busy and that they get out more now than she used to be able to before. Which is true, her and Julia have been going to the market more often. Maria says she enjoys being able to play music when she wants to. Julia is working at a local supermarket chain and discovering a new freedom in that.
Monday, June 8, 2009
In the age of innocence
He comes in the usual polite Honduran way, shaking hands and greeting everyone in the room before being offered a seat. He often makes jokes as he’s doing this, chumming up to each prospective hand shaker. He then sits down and begins to comment or question regarding predictable topics: the weather, the latest soccer game, the latest in Nueva Suyapa’s People magazine or the most recent most corrupt political official. Tonight it was politics.
He is a short man with well toned muscles which he makes sure he shows off with tank tops even in cooler weather. A continuous small talk he has with me is when and for how long we went running that week. I am sure a weight lifting routine is not uncommon as well. He has a mane of a head of hair that flops on both sides, especially while walking. It isn’t too far from the popular male Honduran haircut that comes a little too close to a mullet, short throughout, stretching all the way down the neckline, near the collar, often accompanied with overly gooped gelled curly spikes that he has not taken the time to invest in. His face is evident of his attitude towards life, appears much younger than he actually is. He is not un-handsome and uses the mix of these two qualities to his advantage; cutesying his way into many a less than twenty something heart. This early blooming just teen nonchallantly greets and engages him as any other random house guest.
Both wait for the moment when conversation lulls and the living room population’s attention gravitates towards the latest TV love match game show. He then takes his chance to rob her of her childhood in one single glance, indicating immature intimacy. She reciprocates, as any low self esteemed early teenage would to romantic attention from a 30-something. This jump starts engaged conversation as might occur with high school sweet hearts: a series of questions about homework assignments, class gossip and goings on at the business where he works, reminders of the age discrepancy. He helps her on the current homework assignment she’s working on, as her father should have had he the patience and ability to read. She continues to milk up the manly attention she’s been lacking, learning her green eyes and attempts at flirtation have served for something. They continue to sit next to eachother, just touching, but not too close to alarm anyone. Parents keep a watchful eye but still permit the behavior.
This continued more that once a week for months, until he took it a step too far and took her out during school hours; to do, we are not sure what. She conspired with him, and a group of her friends to make this possible, not aware it was her that was the victim. She could not sneak past parents, who found out maybe a second too late and finally did what they should have a long time ago, not allow him to be a part of her life. The chaos has subsided after a suicide attempt by the girl. Who’s to know from who now she will receive what she rightfully craves.
~Mental health is a taboo topic in Honduras, especially Nueva Suyapa that comes last in the line of bills to pay and mouths to feed. Having food on the table and clothes on the body and sending the kids to school is what is expected of a good parent. This does not mean that the child is not nurtured as needed in many households. However with all the frustrations that living at or below a Honduran working class, investing much needed time and love in their children does not come first. This does not only exist in Honduras, as the US is infiltrated with this problem as well, perhaps only for different reasons. This is only one example of my experience of it happening here. It is a sad reality that has brought me to tears.~
He is a short man with well toned muscles which he makes sure he shows off with tank tops even in cooler weather. A continuous small talk he has with me is when and for how long we went running that week. I am sure a weight lifting routine is not uncommon as well. He has a mane of a head of hair that flops on both sides, especially while walking. It isn’t too far from the popular male Honduran haircut that comes a little too close to a mullet, short throughout, stretching all the way down the neckline, near the collar, often accompanied with overly gooped gelled curly spikes that he has not taken the time to invest in. His face is evident of his attitude towards life, appears much younger than he actually is. He is not un-handsome and uses the mix of these two qualities to his advantage; cutesying his way into many a less than twenty something heart. This early blooming just teen nonchallantly greets and engages him as any other random house guest.
Both wait for the moment when conversation lulls and the living room population’s attention gravitates towards the latest TV love match game show. He then takes his chance to rob her of her childhood in one single glance, indicating immature intimacy. She reciprocates, as any low self esteemed early teenage would to romantic attention from a 30-something. This jump starts engaged conversation as might occur with high school sweet hearts: a series of questions about homework assignments, class gossip and goings on at the business where he works, reminders of the age discrepancy. He helps her on the current homework assignment she’s working on, as her father should have had he the patience and ability to read. She continues to milk up the manly attention she’s been lacking, learning her green eyes and attempts at flirtation have served for something. They continue to sit next to eachother, just touching, but not too close to alarm anyone. Parents keep a watchful eye but still permit the behavior.
This continued more that once a week for months, until he took it a step too far and took her out during school hours; to do, we are not sure what. She conspired with him, and a group of her friends to make this possible, not aware it was her that was the victim. She could not sneak past parents, who found out maybe a second too late and finally did what they should have a long time ago, not allow him to be a part of her life. The chaos has subsided after a suicide attempt by the girl. Who’s to know from who now she will receive what she rightfully craves.
~Mental health is a taboo topic in Honduras, especially Nueva Suyapa that comes last in the line of bills to pay and mouths to feed. Having food on the table and clothes on the body and sending the kids to school is what is expected of a good parent. This does not mean that the child is not nurtured as needed in many households. However with all the frustrations that living at or below a Honduran working class, investing much needed time and love in their children does not come first. This does not only exist in Honduras, as the US is infiltrated with this problem as well, perhaps only for different reasons. This is only one example of my experience of it happening here. It is a sad reality that has brought me to tears.~
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Declarations
I sit, comfortable sipping iced blended
Coffee slush,
a dollar,
cheaper than home,
but a chasm from the two limp chips
I have just escaped
four miles away.
I browse, along with the elites
lucky enough to have to
work the web.
National declaration of Human Rights
my subject matter.
Something that too inspires passion.
Takes me back to:
Seven limp corn on the corner up to Onesimo
Two limp tamales on the Genesis side
Pulperia quantities-for-today-shopping
up top to avoid the six limp trip
to the market where its cheaper
but unbuyable in bulk.
Women incarcerated in houses,
Unaware what lies on the other side.
“Men and women of full age…
have the right to marry and to found a family.
They are entitled to equal rights as to marriage,
during marriage and at its dissolution.”
Juxtaposes every day ingrained
“Feed me
Clean it
perfectly…now!”
while he simply glares and waits
that reverberates
|inside|
well cemented
and p i e c e dtogether walls
all
the
way
down
this shack littered mountain.
But they may never know
The other is an option.
Coffee slush,
a dollar,
cheaper than home,
but a chasm from the two limp chips
I have just escaped
four miles away.
I browse, along with the elites
lucky enough to have to
work the web.
National declaration of Human Rights
my subject matter.
Something that too inspires passion.
Takes me back to:
Seven limp corn on the corner up to Onesimo
Two limp tamales on the Genesis side
Pulperia quantities-for-today-shopping
up top to avoid the six limp trip
to the market where its cheaper
but unbuyable in bulk.
Women incarcerated in houses,
Unaware what lies on the other side.
“Men and women of full age…
have the right to marry and to found a family.
They are entitled to equal rights as to marriage,
during marriage and at its dissolution.”
Juxtaposes every day ingrained
“Feed me
Clean it
perfectly…now!”
while he simply glares and waits
that reverberates
|inside|
well cemented
and p i e c e dtogether walls
all
the
way
down
this shack littered mountain.
But they may never know
The other is an option.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Balcony Reflections
This is what a coworker lovingly called our time on the office balcony overlooking the elementary school that my work building houses. This elementary school has indirectly contributed quite a bit to my time in this building that named itself Genesis. The winning contributor is definitely the noise. During, before, after or no time near recess, shrieks, loud laughs, random bangings , fallings and teachers tryings to re-introduce some level of order overpower any other attempts at white noise . It takes a little getting used to, but strangely somehow eventually becomes the backround that is the only thing heard by on-the-other liners of my phone.
This, however, does not quite excite and mostly annoys me, especially when barriers to long distance communication are high. What does excite me is the bird’s eye balcony view of classes in session with but especially without teachers. It appears to me much like a “Where’s Waldo” school page that I used to read as a child, where each class was a separate window: big enough for the bizarre events of each class to be accentuated, small enough for a synchronizing multitude of organized chaoses to be coalated from afar.
The top left highlights the effects of teacher gone, where a child, taking full advantage of this fact, has decided it is a good idea to play “hot lava”; where the ground is lava, and the desks are safe rocks. He therefore uses his largest stride that might be useful for an unavailable long jump competition to walk from the top of one child’s desk to another, finishing on top of the teacher’s. Below this class and to the right is a classroom benefiting from a teacher’s presence, where most heads seem attempting to sleep and one who can’t is banging against the seat belonging to the child in front of him. Next to this event, is a child running after another, throwing at him a rag of some sort, the origin of which I have yet to learn. As they enter the in session classroom, the recipient of the blow now retaliates, providing an in class commercial. In the next classroom over, an impromptu game of tag entertains idle children, which inevitably explodes into the recess area, pre-recess time. Crawling under and out of the desks is a favorite past time of another to be supervised classroom. Above this game of hide and leap is a class that appears mostly in order, with a whisper here, a jump-out-of-her-seat there and a get-up-to-buy-some-chips over there. When recess does begin, it includes a long line for sugary snacks and juices and a stream of kids running after each other in every which direction without very much of an aim. Five children galactic blue lipped, mouthed and blood sugared come up and say hi.
No wonder these children are contra-control.
This, however, does not quite excite and mostly annoys me, especially when barriers to long distance communication are high. What does excite me is the bird’s eye balcony view of classes in session with but especially without teachers. It appears to me much like a “Where’s Waldo” school page that I used to read as a child, where each class was a separate window: big enough for the bizarre events of each class to be accentuated, small enough for a synchronizing multitude of organized chaoses to be coalated from afar.
The top left highlights the effects of teacher gone, where a child, taking full advantage of this fact, has decided it is a good idea to play “hot lava”; where the ground is lava, and the desks are safe rocks. He therefore uses his largest stride that might be useful for an unavailable long jump competition to walk from the top of one child’s desk to another, finishing on top of the teacher’s. Below this class and to the right is a classroom benefiting from a teacher’s presence, where most heads seem attempting to sleep and one who can’t is banging against the seat belonging to the child in front of him. Next to this event, is a child running after another, throwing at him a rag of some sort, the origin of which I have yet to learn. As they enter the in session classroom, the recipient of the blow now retaliates, providing an in class commercial. In the next classroom over, an impromptu game of tag entertains idle children, which inevitably explodes into the recess area, pre-recess time. Crawling under and out of the desks is a favorite past time of another to be supervised classroom. Above this game of hide and leap is a class that appears mostly in order, with a whisper here, a jump-out-of-her-seat there and a get-up-to-buy-some-chips over there. When recess does begin, it includes a long line for sugary snacks and juices and a stream of kids running after each other in every which direction without very much of an aim. Five children galactic blue lipped, mouthed and blood sugared come up and say hi.
No wonder these children are contra-control.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Saturday afternoon from the other side of Nueva Suyapa
It’s finally a sunny afternoon and I find myself on a porch, experiencing the new responses to the change in weather from a different angle. It’s burning season here, meaning large amounts of foliage, leaves and garbage meet this chemical miracle we call fire to color the city-side, and lungs, with a fuming tint of gray. Mountains are still boundarying the city as they always have before, only a little wavery; visibility affected. On this one, human’s manufacturings interrupt creation’s disordered beauty in sounds and pieces. Trash hidden inside thistle bushes, cricket’s chirping blared over by radio triumphants and once lightly bushed hillsides now dirted and housed are some results. Mostly small, brilliantly colored butterflies flit past, riding the wind; which gently tosses oddly placed banana trees, longer types of grass and evenly littered bush branches. The more common black and white birds and less common miniature ones also go along for a glide, stopping to bask in aluminum reflected heat. Girls and their counterparts walk along this dust with buckets full of water and symmetrically arranged tortilla lined baskets. Some run, hands free, engaging play. Off in the distance, all of these things are happening just the same in greater volume. The sun begins to rest, turning a sky altering yellow-to-orange, tips forcing fuchsia, all pasteled by the ongoing types of smoke. The mountains now merge with clouds, appearing a mere shadow, both dually outlined by lite bright pink. The rowsuponrows of houses seem as they are just beginning to wake up, providing vigils of light pathways along the mountainside, valleys and in between that have come to define this city we call Tegucigalpa.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Bus trip efg's
To sum up, Papa’s shed, when it was finished, was three-quarters of a large, malodorous wooden box without heat, without paint, without charm, and without ostensible purpose. Which is why I felt forced, the first time I stood in it alone after dark, to conclude that what I’d taken to be Papa’s new lease on life might in fact have been a quiet but complete loss of sanity. The odd thing was, this notion didn’t much bother me. Having spent half my time studying the things that schoolteachers, church preachers and paper mill and aluminum plant owners considered “sane,” I figured Papa’s sanity couldn’t do us any more harm than everyone else’s sanity was already doing. ~ David James Duncan ~ The Brother’s K ~ p.106.
I load the bus, like many others like many times before. One of my accompanees is a young boy that appears to me about five wearing a blank shirt and uniformed looking khaki pants. School's been back in session for some weeks now, so it may be a new and exciting kindergarten that this boy’s garb is representing. He is determined to make the most out of this after-school bus-trip in a school bus, full of adults going to the market to work, not learn; who have mostly just graduated from sixth grade, and cannot do the reading or writing that he will soon have the opportunity to learn. So, in order to fulfill this purpose, shoulders hunched, lips wavering, eyebrows raised, he asks and is granted the honored cockpit seat right next to the bus driver and his whole control panel. In one full ask, this boy has now been given the best window seat in the bus; a three foot full frontal view of motorcycles weaving in and out of traffic, women carrying baskets of maize on their heads, and dogs, the constant but momentary obstacles dodging and sometimes creating all this that they have come to know as traffic. It all passes by for the boy like the video game he once played, where crashing into fire hydrants and running into police barricades were his usual game ending events. But, this was even cooler, because it was real life and this idealized bus driver was weaving in and out of similar road teasers; managing this long vehicle full of passengers with ease. When the bus driver was not looking, which was most of the time, this boy would pretend the large steering wheel was in fact in front of him, and he had left his life of smashing into fire hydrants and walked into that of stopping, turning and speeding up at just the right moment to get to the market as fast as he can while picking up every passenger he possibly can.
The bus driver closes the open window, his one safety precaution for his new sidekick. He then presses his finger gingerly on the boy’s stomach, possibly telling one or two more safety tips, explaining a little shop, or hearkening good behavior. My best guess is the latter. From then on, the bus driver returned to bus driver world. This particular bus driver’s head is about one inch higher and sometimes ventures below this very steering wheel the boy imagined he was using. His eyes seem much farther down, indicating either a lack of thought altogether, or an over consumed state of fantasized thought; a switch he seemed to turn off and on during unamused uneventful periods of driving. The very images that sent surges through this little boy’s excitement center seemed altogether expected and regular for this bus driver. Even the occasional close call had already been rerun. Every now and then, this bus driver would participate in these unnecessary forms of communication with the cobradors, descriptions about the height and weight and other keep-out body parts of subsequent women on the bus, passing by, and of those they’d something’d in lower forms of language would often subdue.
The boy didn’t understand such language yet,though it slowly would seep into his conscience and word by word change the way he viewed women. Luckily, at this point, it didn’t yet matter, he too was in his own bus driver world. Where a high school drop-out drinking on or before and after the weekends was a hero, the dogs and taxi drivers were villains and this five year old had just the right idea to make it all work out.
At least he got one of the three right, we’ll hope he hasn’t unlearned it by the time he’s old enough to impact it.
I load the bus, like many others like many times before. One of my accompanees is a young boy that appears to me about five wearing a blank shirt and uniformed looking khaki pants. School's been back in session for some weeks now, so it may be a new and exciting kindergarten that this boy’s garb is representing. He is determined to make the most out of this after-school bus-trip in a school bus, full of adults going to the market to work, not learn; who have mostly just graduated from sixth grade, and cannot do the reading or writing that he will soon have the opportunity to learn. So, in order to fulfill this purpose, shoulders hunched, lips wavering, eyebrows raised, he asks and is granted the honored cockpit seat right next to the bus driver and his whole control panel. In one full ask, this boy has now been given the best window seat in the bus; a three foot full frontal view of motorcycles weaving in and out of traffic, women carrying baskets of maize on their heads, and dogs, the constant but momentary obstacles dodging and sometimes creating all this that they have come to know as traffic. It all passes by for the boy like the video game he once played, where crashing into fire hydrants and running into police barricades were his usual game ending events. But, this was even cooler, because it was real life and this idealized bus driver was weaving in and out of similar road teasers; managing this long vehicle full of passengers with ease. When the bus driver was not looking, which was most of the time, this boy would pretend the large steering wheel was in fact in front of him, and he had left his life of smashing into fire hydrants and walked into that of stopping, turning and speeding up at just the right moment to get to the market as fast as he can while picking up every passenger he possibly can.
The bus driver closes the open window, his one safety precaution for his new sidekick. He then presses his finger gingerly on the boy’s stomach, possibly telling one or two more safety tips, explaining a little shop, or hearkening good behavior. My best guess is the latter. From then on, the bus driver returned to bus driver world. This particular bus driver’s head is about one inch higher and sometimes ventures below this very steering wheel the boy imagined he was using. His eyes seem much farther down, indicating either a lack of thought altogether, or an over consumed state of fantasized thought; a switch he seemed to turn off and on during unamused uneventful periods of driving. The very images that sent surges through this little boy’s excitement center seemed altogether expected and regular for this bus driver. Even the occasional close call had already been rerun. Every now and then, this bus driver would participate in these unnecessary forms of communication with the cobradors, descriptions about the height and weight and other keep-out body parts of subsequent women on the bus, passing by, and of those they’d something’d in lower forms of language would often subdue.
The boy didn’t understand such language yet,though it slowly would seep into his conscience and word by word change the way he viewed women. Luckily, at this point, it didn’t yet matter, he too was in his own bus driver world. Where a high school drop-out drinking on or before and after the weekends was a hero, the dogs and taxi drivers were villains and this five year old had just the right idea to make it all work out.
At least he got one of the three right, we’ll hope he hasn’t unlearned it by the time he’s old enough to impact it.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Another Year
Things are speeding up here in Honduras; hence my lack of blog writing; my creative activities more on loan to work predicaments such as trying to find a way to get the informations guy here to give me a list of the clients so I can keep doing the survey I was assigned to do, but in the end the solution is less creative and more like first grade, tell the big-boss to get him to do it; others are connecting biblical principals to being a loan officer for weekly meetings with loan officers, not that hard I have discovered, as the job seems comparable to many jobs and situations that occurred in biblical times, such as being a shepherd or the parable of the talents ---biblical style micro-finance at its best. Another would be how to write a run-on sentence such as those I am encountering in the “Alquimista” by Paulo Coelo, oh look, I just did it.
Due to all these somewhat strange creative experiences I have been able to discover in Nueva Suyapa, and being offered a continued position here, I have decided to stay another year. I will continue to work with the Microfinance program; excited to pursue some of the many ideas Yoni, the boss of the microfinance program and I birthed after our two week infiltration of micro-finance at the Boulder Institute of Micro-Finance in Costa Rica, thanks to some string pulling by my dad, who works for the Institute. At which I was able to learn cool new economic Spanish terms that I didn’t always understand in English, like Rentabilidad – (covering your costs…ok I know what that means) and Cartera – Microfinance Portfolio (the Spanish of which I knew months before the English); and equations that ran on like my sentence, these classes with such equations brought me back to college math and economics classes in which I was also lost. At first I just tried to listen and stop my mind running during, as I do in my meditation efforts in the morning, and in the end gave up and started physically running and actually getting lost. What I got out of that particular presentation though, was that Bolivia is amazing at microfinance and due to its stellar performance was able to withstand an economic crash in the country: so, be aware and be like Bolivia during our worldwide economic crash.
Other sat through classes better understood were how to amp up the meetings with clients and provide lessons and training in health, self esteem, women’s empowerment, business management and financial literacy; how to run a more productive program; how to reach the poorest of the poor while still making money and a lot about tariffs and interests, oh wait, I didn’t understand that either, and yes, the class was in English, translated into Spanish.
My father was able to come and teach other terms to expectant loan officers such as Viabilidad – or easy – viability – which in English means making money. But, lesson learned, as when I was with a fellow loan officer friend at the business of her sister in law, she commented, “See, this business is viable.” Commenting on the apparent cash – flow, something she also learned in the class that was easliy floating through this business. In addition to teaching necessary tidbits to facilitators such as how to run effective meetings and prevent “morosidad” which is a cool Spanish term for having debt; it was just good to have him here and introduce him to my friends and community. Which he felt so comfortable in, that he decided to throw a surprise party for me, going out with a bang --- a Dora pinata to be exact, which apparently looked like me. Since he and I and you and me and the entire world are apparently connected on facebook, you are free to view these schannanigans on facebook, free of charge, only giving your internet soul to the multi-millionare social genuises who created the gimmick.
In response to all of this learning some things we have decided to focus on here at MCM, aka Genesis, are: continuing to implement training and incentives for facilitators and clients on issues such as described above; looking into and possibly implementing insurance and savings programs—by linking up to bigger MFI’s (Microfinance Institutions) who offer such programs to smaller MFI’s; starting up a program specifically for the poorest of the poor of Nueva Suyapa, giving small loans of around $50 and providing more intensive training in empowerment and financial literacy; and finally --- finishing the dragged out survey that I am conducting on the clients of the program.
All that to say: I am enjoying myself here, finding a lot of good work to do, and plan on doing it for at least another year. I also plan on posting another creative writing attempt soon. Thank you for reading.
Due to all these somewhat strange creative experiences I have been able to discover in Nueva Suyapa, and being offered a continued position here, I have decided to stay another year. I will continue to work with the Microfinance program; excited to pursue some of the many ideas Yoni, the boss of the microfinance program and I birthed after our two week infiltration of micro-finance at the Boulder Institute of Micro-Finance in Costa Rica, thanks to some string pulling by my dad, who works for the Institute. At which I was able to learn cool new economic Spanish terms that I didn’t always understand in English, like Rentabilidad – (covering your costs…ok I know what that means) and Cartera – Microfinance Portfolio (the Spanish of which I knew months before the English); and equations that ran on like my sentence, these classes with such equations brought me back to college math and economics classes in which I was also lost. At first I just tried to listen and stop my mind running during, as I do in my meditation efforts in the morning, and in the end gave up and started physically running and actually getting lost. What I got out of that particular presentation though, was that Bolivia is amazing at microfinance and due to its stellar performance was able to withstand an economic crash in the country: so, be aware and be like Bolivia during our worldwide economic crash.
Other sat through classes better understood were how to amp up the meetings with clients and provide lessons and training in health, self esteem, women’s empowerment, business management and financial literacy; how to run a more productive program; how to reach the poorest of the poor while still making money and a lot about tariffs and interests, oh wait, I didn’t understand that either, and yes, the class was in English, translated into Spanish.
My father was able to come and teach other terms to expectant loan officers such as Viabilidad – or easy – viability – which in English means making money. But, lesson learned, as when I was with a fellow loan officer friend at the business of her sister in law, she commented, “See, this business is viable.” Commenting on the apparent cash – flow, something she also learned in the class that was easliy floating through this business. In addition to teaching necessary tidbits to facilitators such as how to run effective meetings and prevent “morosidad” which is a cool Spanish term for having debt; it was just good to have him here and introduce him to my friends and community. Which he felt so comfortable in, that he decided to throw a surprise party for me, going out with a bang --- a Dora pinata to be exact, which apparently looked like me. Since he and I and you and me and the entire world are apparently connected on facebook, you are free to view these schannanigans on facebook, free of charge, only giving your internet soul to the multi-millionare social genuises who created the gimmick.
In response to all of this learning some things we have decided to focus on here at MCM, aka Genesis, are: continuing to implement training and incentives for facilitators and clients on issues such as described above; looking into and possibly implementing insurance and savings programs—by linking up to bigger MFI’s (Microfinance Institutions) who offer such programs to smaller MFI’s; starting up a program specifically for the poorest of the poor of Nueva Suyapa, giving small loans of around $50 and providing more intensive training in empowerment and financial literacy; and finally --- finishing the dragged out survey that I am conducting on the clients of the program.
All that to say: I am enjoying myself here, finding a lot of good work to do, and plan on doing it for at least another year. I also plan on posting another creative writing attempt soon. Thank you for reading.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Splityear
“I did not go to Nicaragua intending to write a book, or write at all, but my encounter with the place affected me so deeply that in the end I had no choice. So: a moment, but I believe a crucial and revealing one, because it was neither a beginning nor an end, but a middle, a time that felt close to the fulcrum of history, a time when all things, all the possible futures, were still (just) in the balance.” Salman Rushdie, The Jaguar Smile, p. 5.
It is nearing the end of January, meaning I have just the same amount of time to go in my time here as the time that has passed. Like usual, it has gone by fast, and I reflect on what has come before.
Maybe this split of the year I find myself in is a little like being at the bottom of the hill on my common run a couple times a week: the way down, which is always in this case first, was less work, nonetheless much needed preparation for the way up, the more strenous part. But the way up, though once a grand feat, is now known, studied and experienced; pace intuitive, momentum steady, fear subsided. The amount of time is beginning to show more and more by my Honduran sister Diana, whose before mere bump is now a living being yawning, sleeping, stretching arms on their bed. Yes, 5 months, that is how long it has taken me to birth my own baby I’d like to call confidence and trust, in myself and in and from others and its still on its way. But I am constantly reminded, as being surrounded by the bible as a tool of reminders, that David wandered around for years in the pastures, attending to smelly sheep and killing bears and lions before slaying Goliath, and even that was just the beginning.
The outside living-ness of Nueva Suyapa such as children playing soccer in my path, donkeys going on their own and mothers bathing their children no longer makes me giddy like it did before. They now are everyday backdrops of the painting I’d like to call my life in Tegucigalpa.
Names, faces, children I’ve played with, promises I’ve made fly by like the buses going to their barns after a long day of hard work; too tired to really meet. That is something I’d like to change about myself and my situation, but with such a multitude passing through this community center each day, it is not always possible to invest, sometimes even to remember.
My expectations are beginning to lower, in a good way, it is making me happier and content, appreciative of the small things and small victories; me finally taking advantage of opportunities to joke around, understanding it all; a co-worker spending all day on a presentation for his bank meetings despite low turnout and finally giving my own presentations, and receiving positive results.
It is windier than usual here, making it cold this side of the mountain. I am finding myself robed much like those around me: everything looking nice but nothing really too practical for the situation at hand; hiding holes that expose goose bumping skin. No, it is not too cold here, but all things are relative, and when thin sweaters and blankets are all we’ve all got to keep us all warm, well, it feels cold. And how it feels really does matter, I’m beginning to realize.
Back in my house I’m led once again to decipher the difference between firecrackers, cars backfiring and actual gun shots. Though, hearing a real gun shot is much like the moment right when you’re going to throw up or faint, you just internally know it. I guess that is one of the many skills I am gaining while being here. I listen long to hear the after effects: children crying, fearful others or tormented participators running down the road; expectant individuals waiting to see what has really happened. I am convinced now; it is not so safe to walk around here at night. The fear that inhabitors possess, that multiplied x on the survey I am taking that says no these clients cannot live without fear of violence now also becomes a part of me. I now jump in fear when friends surprise me in the streets; an internal instinct of “watch out”. My eyes seem like they are only now beginning to open, my life now more a known part of the diffulculties every day Nueva Suyapans have had to live all of their lives. I always think about, how I will and can never fully know, for I have a way out, and access to more money; and it is in the end, only a year.
It is nearing the end of January, meaning I have just the same amount of time to go in my time here as the time that has passed. Like usual, it has gone by fast, and I reflect on what has come before.
Maybe this split of the year I find myself in is a little like being at the bottom of the hill on my common run a couple times a week: the way down, which is always in this case first, was less work, nonetheless much needed preparation for the way up, the more strenous part. But the way up, though once a grand feat, is now known, studied and experienced; pace intuitive, momentum steady, fear subsided. The amount of time is beginning to show more and more by my Honduran sister Diana, whose before mere bump is now a living being yawning, sleeping, stretching arms on their bed. Yes, 5 months, that is how long it has taken me to birth my own baby I’d like to call confidence and trust, in myself and in and from others and its still on its way. But I am constantly reminded, as being surrounded by the bible as a tool of reminders, that David wandered around for years in the pastures, attending to smelly sheep and killing bears and lions before slaying Goliath, and even that was just the beginning.
The outside living-ness of Nueva Suyapa such as children playing soccer in my path, donkeys going on their own and mothers bathing their children no longer makes me giddy like it did before. They now are everyday backdrops of the painting I’d like to call my life in Tegucigalpa.
Names, faces, children I’ve played with, promises I’ve made fly by like the buses going to their barns after a long day of hard work; too tired to really meet. That is something I’d like to change about myself and my situation, but with such a multitude passing through this community center each day, it is not always possible to invest, sometimes even to remember.
My expectations are beginning to lower, in a good way, it is making me happier and content, appreciative of the small things and small victories; me finally taking advantage of opportunities to joke around, understanding it all; a co-worker spending all day on a presentation for his bank meetings despite low turnout and finally giving my own presentations, and receiving positive results.
It is windier than usual here, making it cold this side of the mountain. I am finding myself robed much like those around me: everything looking nice but nothing really too practical for the situation at hand; hiding holes that expose goose bumping skin. No, it is not too cold here, but all things are relative, and when thin sweaters and blankets are all we’ve all got to keep us all warm, well, it feels cold. And how it feels really does matter, I’m beginning to realize.
Back in my house I’m led once again to decipher the difference between firecrackers, cars backfiring and actual gun shots. Though, hearing a real gun shot is much like the moment right when you’re going to throw up or faint, you just internally know it. I guess that is one of the many skills I am gaining while being here. I listen long to hear the after effects: children crying, fearful others or tormented participators running down the road; expectant individuals waiting to see what has really happened. I am convinced now; it is not so safe to walk around here at night. The fear that inhabitors possess, that multiplied x on the survey I am taking that says no these clients cannot live without fear of violence now also becomes a part of me. I now jump in fear when friends surprise me in the streets; an internal instinct of “watch out”. My eyes seem like they are only now beginning to open, my life now more a known part of the diffulculties every day Nueva Suyapans have had to live all of their lives. I always think about, how I will and can never fully know, for I have a way out, and access to more money; and it is in the end, only a year.
A kind of Rebirth
…“And then,
we’ll go wake our own dead
with the life they bequeathed us
and we’ll all sing together
with concerts of birds
repeat our message
through the length and breadth
of America.”
~ From Until We’re Free
By Giocanda Belli.~
The next time I was in the hospital, though not the same graveyard public hospital, Hospital Escuela, was for the birth of my Honduran sister’s first born child. Though this one was a private hospital, it still had the third world detoriation and dirtier feel that Hospital Escuela had; bringing back memories of the last dreaded visit. I guess, the same thread that can take life can give it; the same waiting room that brings greif can bring joy; and they often come hand in hand, just like my full circle experiences of a child’s death piggy backed by a new child’s life.
To realize that the same country, and the same amount though opposite emotive power can respond to and produce both life and death gives me hope that next to every story of sadness there is also a story of triumph, a story of overcoming obstacles, a story of one’s once dead spirit now living on in another. I guess that is what the resurrection story is about, and why, though He knew the eventual outcomes, Jesus wept deeply at the death of Lazarus, and to the point of death in Gethsemane. This shows me that Jesus’ example was that it is OK, natural and healthy to grieve losses in ones life, or grieve the loss, the profound sadness of a world full of things we cannot excuse, like the avoidable death of a ten year old child. And I truly believe that it is only in allowing ourselves to feel every one of our feelings, that sometimes unconsolable sadness and inquenchable anger for the backdrops of injustice that fill the skylines of our everyday lives that we can adversably feel true joy, and really rejoice.
That has been my experience here in Honduras; falling down to be picked up again by the beautiful people around me, but also to learn how I have the possibility, with help, to learn how to pick up myself; gaining slowly the self trust and confidence that sometimes takes. And now, after working to not stuff down but feel such grief, I am beginning to feel real joy at every day events like playing with children, going hiking and celebrating the successes of coworkers.
It’s Small steps taken gradually and at my own pace; and it’s not perfect; I thank God that he didn’t require that of us, but while in our suffering and struggle and what some call sin, well She had deep compassion on us, because we were like sheep without a shepherd. I pray for all of you, as you too, decipher this journey that is laid in front of you.
I saw the baby today, she’s a little chubby, blancita and beautiful, with big feet, just like the father they say. We waited up all night to see her, she was born at six in the morning, but we didn’t hear news of her birth till 9:00am. The family had an appointment to see her at 11:00am. It is weird to me that none of the family, even the spouse, can be with the pregnant woman while in labor. But, because there are over twenty women giving birth in the same open room, they have to allow privacy for every patient, meaning no strangers, who are family of one of the other 20, or nonmedical person present. I remember in a cross-cultural class in college having to study major events – like births or deaths in different cultures, now I see why, it says a lot about the values of a culture. For example, the husband slept all night while she was in labor while the parents and sisters waited up; he had work the next day and they didn’t give him permission to leave to be with his wife. That kind of behavior seems unheard of where my worldview comes from, but signifies a lot about the expectations about the role of the husband in a more machismo culture. However it is interesting to see, the power of such a small being, how she, by her mere presence, can transform these cultural norms; making even the more machista harder hearts soft, speaking in spanish baby language to the newborn. I look forward to seeing if she will change my own negative norms during the rest of my time here.
we’ll go wake our own dead
with the life they bequeathed us
and we’ll all sing together
with concerts of birds
repeat our message
through the length and breadth
of America.”
~ From Until We’re Free
By Giocanda Belli.~
The next time I was in the hospital, though not the same graveyard public hospital, Hospital Escuela, was for the birth of my Honduran sister’s first born child. Though this one was a private hospital, it still had the third world detoriation and dirtier feel that Hospital Escuela had; bringing back memories of the last dreaded visit. I guess, the same thread that can take life can give it; the same waiting room that brings greif can bring joy; and they often come hand in hand, just like my full circle experiences of a child’s death piggy backed by a new child’s life.
To realize that the same country, and the same amount though opposite emotive power can respond to and produce both life and death gives me hope that next to every story of sadness there is also a story of triumph, a story of overcoming obstacles, a story of one’s once dead spirit now living on in another. I guess that is what the resurrection story is about, and why, though He knew the eventual outcomes, Jesus wept deeply at the death of Lazarus, and to the point of death in Gethsemane. This shows me that Jesus’ example was that it is OK, natural and healthy to grieve losses in ones life, or grieve the loss, the profound sadness of a world full of things we cannot excuse, like the avoidable death of a ten year old child. And I truly believe that it is only in allowing ourselves to feel every one of our feelings, that sometimes unconsolable sadness and inquenchable anger for the backdrops of injustice that fill the skylines of our everyday lives that we can adversably feel true joy, and really rejoice.
That has been my experience here in Honduras; falling down to be picked up again by the beautiful people around me, but also to learn how I have the possibility, with help, to learn how to pick up myself; gaining slowly the self trust and confidence that sometimes takes. And now, after working to not stuff down but feel such grief, I am beginning to feel real joy at every day events like playing with children, going hiking and celebrating the successes of coworkers.
It’s Small steps taken gradually and at my own pace; and it’s not perfect; I thank God that he didn’t require that of us, but while in our suffering and struggle and what some call sin, well She had deep compassion on us, because we were like sheep without a shepherd. I pray for all of you, as you too, decipher this journey that is laid in front of you.
I saw the baby today, she’s a little chubby, blancita and beautiful, with big feet, just like the father they say. We waited up all night to see her, she was born at six in the morning, but we didn’t hear news of her birth till 9:00am. The family had an appointment to see her at 11:00am. It is weird to me that none of the family, even the spouse, can be with the pregnant woman while in labor. But, because there are over twenty women giving birth in the same open room, they have to allow privacy for every patient, meaning no strangers, who are family of one of the other 20, or nonmedical person present. I remember in a cross-cultural class in college having to study major events – like births or deaths in different cultures, now I see why, it says a lot about the values of a culture. For example, the husband slept all night while she was in labor while the parents and sisters waited up; he had work the next day and they didn’t give him permission to leave to be with his wife. That kind of behavior seems unheard of where my worldview comes from, but signifies a lot about the expectations about the role of the husband in a more machismo culture. However it is interesting to see, the power of such a small being, how she, by her mere presence, can transform these cultural norms; making even the more machista harder hearts soft, speaking in spanish baby language to the newborn. I look forward to seeing if she will change my own negative norms during the rest of my time here.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Melissa
“Cada alud de tristeza tiene su historia y su intestino”
“Every avalanche of sadness has its story and its intestine.” ~ Diana A. Espinal Meza (Honduran Poet) ~
“All too many ministers found themselves more cautious then courageous, and remained silent among the safe security of stained glass windows.” MLK – Letter from a Birmingham Jail.
“The oppressor is solidary with the oppressed only when he stops regarding the oppressed as an abstract category and treats them as persons who have been unjustly dealt with, deprived of their voice, cheated in the sale of their labor---when he stops making pious, sentimental and ritualistic gestures and risks an act of love.” ~ Paulo Freire; Pedagogy of the Oppressed p. 35 ~
“I asked you a question, I didn’t need you to reply;
is it getting heavy?
And then I realized, is it getting heavy?
Well I thought it was already as heavy as it can be.
Is it overwhelming; to use a crane to crush a fly?
A good time for superman to lift the sun into the sky
Is it overwhelming?
Well I thought it was already as heavy as can be.
Tell everybody waiting for superman,
they should try to hold on as best they can.
He hasn’t dropped them, forgot them or anything,
It’s just too heavy for superman to lift.”
Flaming Lips --- Waiting for Superman.
The last line of this song came into my mind as I walked to the hospital, bringing my never to be used by Melissa’s cd player to her last seen hospital room. I guess I didn’t realize how severe it was, or more accurately, didn’t want to believe how severe it was. I had been warned after all of the possible nearness of death in the moment when, holding her hand, out of my mouth poured “You see those angels, they’re singing for you, they’re singing.” I guess God has Her way of preparing us for the deaths of those we choose to love even when we are in denial about it.
It just didn’t seem to make sense, yes she had HIV and yes she was malnourished, and the terrible mix of the two was dangerous; but what she had at that moment seemed curable, and that is why I expect this situation to haunt and drive me for quite some time now.
The hauntedness coming from the idea of the third and fourth quotes, realizing the cautious route is the one I decided in this case, wondering if I risked more acts of love, if others risked more acts of love if it all would have turned out differently. But I will never know, and as David James Duncan says in the Brother’s K, it’s not my job to know. That, in the end will only keep me up at night and possibly keep me from more acts of love in the future. However, what my job is now, regardless of what I did or didn’t do in the past is to tell the story that she was not able to tell; and that is what I would like to do now.
Liz needed to go to the bathroom with her buddy, Diana, so she passed Melissa, who was sitting on her lap, over to me. We were watching a very strange and over the top middle aged musical, however Melissa was not noticing the strangeness or the over the top-ness. When I looked over at her, her eyes did not seem to be following the characters the way one’s eyes usually follow TV. Maybe that was a good thing, I have watched one too many children’s eyes stolen by these images flashing and dancing that maybe I’d rather any child be anywhere else in their mind. But not where I came to understand this child probably was in hers; I would rather her enjoying anything silly or fun even if it was a temporary, in this case, healthy escape.
Melissa was one who was taught very early on, as I was taught early on, not to trust virtually anyone, but especially adults. Her parents died when she was young and she lived with her grandmother who abused her, when the director of the orphanage rescued her from her horrible living situation. I do not know all of the abuse Melissa had to endure, but based on the dent larger than a fist on her head, and her flinches when children would play fight with eachother, I reckon it must have been severe.
As I held her already delicate body and scarred arms, overwhelming sadness overcame me. I imagined myself as a child, being held in my parent’s arms, realizing that whatever pain I experienced as a child was nothing compared to what this child had to go through. I held her tight as I cried over these things.
I remember the first time I met her; it was with a group of other children at the orphanage. She was more a normal skinnyness size then; dark black hair with twinges of brown that fit nicely with her bronze lightly rounded cheeks. Always interested yet always shy and in the backround. At this point though, she was involved in more childlike play things then she would be later. She was wearing a glitter lipstick that must have been gifted to one of the other girls at the orphanage; indicating her possession of a little dress up curiosity at the least.
That moment in the movie theatre when I held her, I noticed her experimenting with pushing my extended hand away and then asking for it back. She did that with many adults, and with my presence that night; going back into her room to be alone and then coming back out to be held again. I would wait and I noticed in the waiting would give her the chance to decide when she wanted touch as the touch she was used to was so often tainted or so far away from positive.
Back at the orphanage, after a long bout of being alone in her room, Melissa came out for her medicine, and to say hello. I will always remember her standing there, wanting attention but not able to ask for it in the way many other kids do so naturally. Maybe she felt she didn’t deserve it; maybe she thought her burden too large for anyone to take away from her; maybe she just wasn’t used to it, unsure she even wanted it. So she just stood there, gave me a “yes I am suffering” look and I walked over to her and asked how she was doing. She said she would like to sit down with me. I grabbed a chair, walked outside with her and sat her on my lap. We watched and talked about the stars and the other children playing duck-duck goose. Maybe she wished she could enjoy playing, maybe she was enjoying just wishing her wish that night.
It is hard to know if that came true.
After she was tired she had the courage to ask me to walk her to her room and stay with her as she went to sleep. I read her and the other children around her a story as she curled up as close as possible; smiling the only satisfied smile I had seen on her side of the tracks that day.
She slept in peace that night.
The next and last time I saw her, I held her hand that same way I did before and she curled up that same way she did before. She was frail and delicate this time, bones just holding together skin and failing organs, lifting up her near lifeless hand to ask for a drink or to try to move the IV counterfeit that was stuck in her arm. It was hard to hold that hand; experiencing first hand the effects of neglect and abuse.
She, I firmly believe, slept in peace; for good this time.
I say neglect and abuse and not HIV because I know that Melissa was receiving the treatment she needed to survive. However, not the intensive dose of acts of love that she needed. Because of that, she would walk around, weighted by her internal nightmare, would refuse to eat or play or commune at all with others, until her body began refusing food and treatment naturally, making her incerasingly sick, speeding up the effects of HIV and AIDS. I do not know specifics, but this is what I understood happened. In the end, her body shut down and she could not breathe.
“Osprets eat fish. Deers eat foliage, change their diets and they’ll die.” David James Duncan, The Brother’s K p. 282.
It was her much regimented diet of medicine that was changed which caused her to die. However it may have been a change of environment as well. Melissa had been rescued from her abusive household around seven months before to the children’s home where my friend Liz worked. It is hard to say, if bringing Melissa to the children’s home extended her life a few months later, simply allowed her to die knowing she was loved or was such a shock, though positive, still a shock compared to the hell she was used to, another kind of diet change. It is said that children used to abuse and neglect crave it because it is the only thing they have been shown as something like love in their life. Coming into an environment where she was shown a kinder variety of love may have been hard for her. In addition, with so many mouths and souls to feed it may have been a morsel compared to the intensified attentiveness and patience she needed to survive. There was one psycologist who just began at the orphanage for thirty five emotionally drained and needy children with HIV or HIV AIDS. I am not blaming any one, just trying to come to terms with the situation while noting the reality that exists in Honduras and so many other developing country orphanages around the world. Though I usually stray from eternity oriented religion, I couldn’t help but think of her death as one of God’s backwards ways of removing her from “a world’s worth of things I can’t excuse.”(Ani Difranco)
Nonetheless, whatever perfectly poignant insight we can get out of this inexcusable situation, it is still and will always be inexcusable. I have heard statistics of so many such deaths, and yes this was my first in person encounter with such a statistic. The fact that one ten year old dies of lack and malice personified tears me up inside, but the fact that the statistics tell me of thousands, millions of such deaths deflates all of those insides. And yes, this was one I loved, and yes that caused me to weep.
Maybe it takes one personal relationship to make the statistic mean something, maybe numbers just become numbers to so many. Maybe she died so that many more may live. I hope so, I hope there is some significant meaning. If nothing more, she will always be in me the rock that cries out regarding the grand injustice of the state of HIV AIDS and domestic abuse in this world and country. I guess I write this in the hope that her story will inspire you to do the same, and you will not get bogged down with the statistics, numbers and need. Realizing, that some will and do die, but if you fight courageously, if you fight with love, and favor that over fear motivated self protection, well, maybe many more really will live to be Honduras’ and Zimbabwe’s and Cambodia’s Martin Luther Kings.
“Every avalanche of sadness has its story and its intestine.” ~ Diana A. Espinal Meza (Honduran Poet) ~
“All too many ministers found themselves more cautious then courageous, and remained silent among the safe security of stained glass windows.” MLK – Letter from a Birmingham Jail.
“The oppressor is solidary with the oppressed only when he stops regarding the oppressed as an abstract category and treats them as persons who have been unjustly dealt with, deprived of their voice, cheated in the sale of their labor---when he stops making pious, sentimental and ritualistic gestures and risks an act of love.” ~ Paulo Freire; Pedagogy of the Oppressed p. 35 ~
“I asked you a question, I didn’t need you to reply;
is it getting heavy?
And then I realized, is it getting heavy?
Well I thought it was already as heavy as it can be.
Is it overwhelming; to use a crane to crush a fly?
A good time for superman to lift the sun into the sky
Is it overwhelming?
Well I thought it was already as heavy as can be.
Tell everybody waiting for superman,
they should try to hold on as best they can.
He hasn’t dropped them, forgot them or anything,
It’s just too heavy for superman to lift.”
Flaming Lips --- Waiting for Superman.
The last line of this song came into my mind as I walked to the hospital, bringing my never to be used by Melissa’s cd player to her last seen hospital room. I guess I didn’t realize how severe it was, or more accurately, didn’t want to believe how severe it was. I had been warned after all of the possible nearness of death in the moment when, holding her hand, out of my mouth poured “You see those angels, they’re singing for you, they’re singing.” I guess God has Her way of preparing us for the deaths of those we choose to love even when we are in denial about it.
It just didn’t seem to make sense, yes she had HIV and yes she was malnourished, and the terrible mix of the two was dangerous; but what she had at that moment seemed curable, and that is why I expect this situation to haunt and drive me for quite some time now.
The hauntedness coming from the idea of the third and fourth quotes, realizing the cautious route is the one I decided in this case, wondering if I risked more acts of love, if others risked more acts of love if it all would have turned out differently. But I will never know, and as David James Duncan says in the Brother’s K, it’s not my job to know. That, in the end will only keep me up at night and possibly keep me from more acts of love in the future. However, what my job is now, regardless of what I did or didn’t do in the past is to tell the story that she was not able to tell; and that is what I would like to do now.
Liz needed to go to the bathroom with her buddy, Diana, so she passed Melissa, who was sitting on her lap, over to me. We were watching a very strange and over the top middle aged musical, however Melissa was not noticing the strangeness or the over the top-ness. When I looked over at her, her eyes did not seem to be following the characters the way one’s eyes usually follow TV. Maybe that was a good thing, I have watched one too many children’s eyes stolen by these images flashing and dancing that maybe I’d rather any child be anywhere else in their mind. But not where I came to understand this child probably was in hers; I would rather her enjoying anything silly or fun even if it was a temporary, in this case, healthy escape.
Melissa was one who was taught very early on, as I was taught early on, not to trust virtually anyone, but especially adults. Her parents died when she was young and she lived with her grandmother who abused her, when the director of the orphanage rescued her from her horrible living situation. I do not know all of the abuse Melissa had to endure, but based on the dent larger than a fist on her head, and her flinches when children would play fight with eachother, I reckon it must have been severe.
As I held her already delicate body and scarred arms, overwhelming sadness overcame me. I imagined myself as a child, being held in my parent’s arms, realizing that whatever pain I experienced as a child was nothing compared to what this child had to go through. I held her tight as I cried over these things.
I remember the first time I met her; it was with a group of other children at the orphanage. She was more a normal skinnyness size then; dark black hair with twinges of brown that fit nicely with her bronze lightly rounded cheeks. Always interested yet always shy and in the backround. At this point though, she was involved in more childlike play things then she would be later. She was wearing a glitter lipstick that must have been gifted to one of the other girls at the orphanage; indicating her possession of a little dress up curiosity at the least.
That moment in the movie theatre when I held her, I noticed her experimenting with pushing my extended hand away and then asking for it back. She did that with many adults, and with my presence that night; going back into her room to be alone and then coming back out to be held again. I would wait and I noticed in the waiting would give her the chance to decide when she wanted touch as the touch she was used to was so often tainted or so far away from positive.
Back at the orphanage, after a long bout of being alone in her room, Melissa came out for her medicine, and to say hello. I will always remember her standing there, wanting attention but not able to ask for it in the way many other kids do so naturally. Maybe she felt she didn’t deserve it; maybe she thought her burden too large for anyone to take away from her; maybe she just wasn’t used to it, unsure she even wanted it. So she just stood there, gave me a “yes I am suffering” look and I walked over to her and asked how she was doing. She said she would like to sit down with me. I grabbed a chair, walked outside with her and sat her on my lap. We watched and talked about the stars and the other children playing duck-duck goose. Maybe she wished she could enjoy playing, maybe she was enjoying just wishing her wish that night.
It is hard to know if that came true.
After she was tired she had the courage to ask me to walk her to her room and stay with her as she went to sleep. I read her and the other children around her a story as she curled up as close as possible; smiling the only satisfied smile I had seen on her side of the tracks that day.
She slept in peace that night.
The next and last time I saw her, I held her hand that same way I did before and she curled up that same way she did before. She was frail and delicate this time, bones just holding together skin and failing organs, lifting up her near lifeless hand to ask for a drink or to try to move the IV counterfeit that was stuck in her arm. It was hard to hold that hand; experiencing first hand the effects of neglect and abuse.
She, I firmly believe, slept in peace; for good this time.
I say neglect and abuse and not HIV because I know that Melissa was receiving the treatment she needed to survive. However, not the intensive dose of acts of love that she needed. Because of that, she would walk around, weighted by her internal nightmare, would refuse to eat or play or commune at all with others, until her body began refusing food and treatment naturally, making her incerasingly sick, speeding up the effects of HIV and AIDS. I do not know specifics, but this is what I understood happened. In the end, her body shut down and she could not breathe.
“Osprets eat fish. Deers eat foliage, change their diets and they’ll die.” David James Duncan, The Brother’s K p. 282.
It was her much regimented diet of medicine that was changed which caused her to die. However it may have been a change of environment as well. Melissa had been rescued from her abusive household around seven months before to the children’s home where my friend Liz worked. It is hard to say, if bringing Melissa to the children’s home extended her life a few months later, simply allowed her to die knowing she was loved or was such a shock, though positive, still a shock compared to the hell she was used to, another kind of diet change. It is said that children used to abuse and neglect crave it because it is the only thing they have been shown as something like love in their life. Coming into an environment where she was shown a kinder variety of love may have been hard for her. In addition, with so many mouths and souls to feed it may have been a morsel compared to the intensified attentiveness and patience she needed to survive. There was one psycologist who just began at the orphanage for thirty five emotionally drained and needy children with HIV or HIV AIDS. I am not blaming any one, just trying to come to terms with the situation while noting the reality that exists in Honduras and so many other developing country orphanages around the world. Though I usually stray from eternity oriented religion, I couldn’t help but think of her death as one of God’s backwards ways of removing her from “a world’s worth of things I can’t excuse.”(Ani Difranco)
Nonetheless, whatever perfectly poignant insight we can get out of this inexcusable situation, it is still and will always be inexcusable. I have heard statistics of so many such deaths, and yes this was my first in person encounter with such a statistic. The fact that one ten year old dies of lack and malice personified tears me up inside, but the fact that the statistics tell me of thousands, millions of such deaths deflates all of those insides. And yes, this was one I loved, and yes that caused me to weep.
Maybe it takes one personal relationship to make the statistic mean something, maybe numbers just become numbers to so many. Maybe she died so that many more may live. I hope so, I hope there is some significant meaning. If nothing more, she will always be in me the rock that cries out regarding the grand injustice of the state of HIV AIDS and domestic abuse in this world and country. I guess I write this in the hope that her story will inspire you to do the same, and you will not get bogged down with the statistics, numbers and need. Realizing, that some will and do die, but if you fight courageously, if you fight with love, and favor that over fear motivated self protection, well, maybe many more really will live to be Honduras’ and Zimbabwe’s and Cambodia’s Martin Luther Kings.
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