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.

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.~