When I approach a large change in life I begin to wax nostalgic about good things from times long past. A big change is coming in a few months and this time around the subject of my nostalgia is: my central american year. For every person you see below, there are ten more who were in the story behind the picture, for every smile caught by camera there were twenty more when the camera was put away…
I don’t know what to say, but the names of some of the people and places and things. But really, the names of the people…
“–the way in which stories posses the power they do, by which they
actually change how people think, feel and behave, and hence change
the way the world actually is–”
(N.T. Wright, but really anybody who’s thought with even half a wit about stories and us humans and what it all is ought to have the same thing in heart)
…some of the people who were part of this story. Were? That’s tough. Really tough. Jorge. Magdalena and the other Magdalena and Catarina and her little brother, sharp as a tack, Angelina and the other Angelina, Mateo, Isabela who has a name-twin in town, “Alcalde” and Alfredo, one goofy and happy and the other goofy and sharp as a tack too, Sara and Amalia and Chepita and Pablito and Mingita and Mrs. Rosa and Jefe Roni and el Mosquito Paquito, Wuicho who’s so great at math and just a great little kid and walks and talks and is as though he were in his 50’s, and Diego who really is still a child somehow, and the one dirtbike that actually worked well. And more that I don’t even have pictures for, la pocaluz that became la resplandora through hell, the Paloma, the Tortugita, Meme, Don Chepe, El Mero-Mero chingonaso viejito Don Otto, la Negra y la trapeadora Ines. La Coyotilla (arrooOOOOooooo). The Pokis and Fiona and Shrek and Claudini and Luchis. Tripa el caballeron (also known by his buds as vejillo). Danery. La Capsinita and su esposito y el Capsinito. El Camion. Wuicho the mechanic and his pop Don Enrique and Venado the crazy, the pastorcitos and the shrink and the giant cranky guy and the half-dozen canchas in town, each it’s own place. Eatin’ some ceviche and having a cold beer up with the shusha. The Shush and his crazy daughters. Tamales. Tortillas. The Cuban doctors who I hardly understood, the annoying old one and chill less-old one. All the suegros and suegras and chabashitas and chabashitos. The market. And so much more, many more. Many many more. And also more hell than I’d ever thought could be on earth, too.
Isn’t that what a chapter of life’s supposed to be anyways? Well actually I can’t think that’s the whole, but it’s gotta be a piece. Right?
I’m signed up for a Substitute Teacher orientation session in Soldotna, AK on October 20th; before one chapter’s really over the next one starts, that’s the way in the world today, and it doesn’t help my mind and heart to not be completely revuelto. Or maybe I’m wrong and it means that one chapter is really over.
It’s weird when clicking a button is the turning of the final page in a chapter of life.
The last few days are all so much that I don’t know how to write anything at all, but for the same reason I’ve gotta write something, so it’ll be the game of hell and earth and life and god in as few words as possible. Here’s what happened; what I feel and need to say will come later.
She was jumped and raped monday morning. For 72 hours she was in hell. When she slept she relived it over and over again until she woke up, then it’s this batshit scared broken semi-concious state where she thrashes and cries out until she realizes that it’s not all happening again, and she begs to not be alone and her friend would ask her if she needs anything, food or water, then she falls asleep back into reliving what’s far worse than death until she wakes up again. I’ve never seen something so terrifying and horrible, when I finally let it all out and cried and cried, I’ve never cried like that before in my life. Something change deep in my heart, the type of change that doesn’t happen but a few times in a lifetime.
She was completely disabled. To go to the bathroom, Jorge and I had to stand her up, at which point she’d pass out and we’d have to carry her fireman style (the two of us barely held up, she’s not a small girl) to the bathroom, where we’d leave her with a few of her friends and she’d wake up on the toilet and panic and cry again. She hadn’t eaten a meal since Sunday.
And yesterday morning 72 hours later she woke up and said she needed to walk. She bathed with a little bit of help from Julia and asked for breakfast. She ate, and we went to the Catholic Church. She got into and out of the car on her own. So here I am sitting a few spots down the pew from her. She’s forgiven the four men, she’s sobbing but there’s no more pain nor fear, she’s sobbing because she’s giving thanks to God and she looks at me with a smile and says David, I need to look for the people who are most needy in this world and help them, Jesus came to me in my dream and told me he didn’t want to see me like I was, he told me to get up and walk because there’s work to do, and she says this with a smile. I need to find the most needy people in this world and help them, she said. You arrived was all I could say, and she smiled and nodded.
And yesterday morning something else changed deep in my heart, the same type of change that doesn’t happen but a few times in a lifetime. She left Barillas yesterday after going to church, she left with two of her friends in a little old plane piloted by a content old gringo who doesn’t really have any home at all and in half an hour she was in her hometown Quetzaltenango for medical tests and then went to be with her family.
You can’t make this stuff up, man.
It’s funny how very often the more words a picture’s worth the less the quality matters. By the way, that’s a motorcycle designed for agricultural use in the Australian outback. I love the sound of that exactly as much as I have no idea what it really means. And I have absolutely no idea.
Tonight the best in Guatemala faces off with the boys of Seattle. For all that’s awesome about Seattle and Sigi and Keller and Pike Place Market and the squad, lets rout them 4-1.
(and…ah hem..er…for my ego, too)
PS
Alonso, I really, really really wanna see you stuff one in the net. Métela pués compadre, métela con huevones!
EDIT:
We won. 4-1.
I can’t recall the last time I was that happy about a soccer game :D
