Noche de Paz

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.