Dinner with Honduras

On a dark, cold night, I knocked on the door of a small, earthen house. I came from curiosity, knowing that there were things to learn inside, though not yet knowing what. And perhaps I just wanted to get out of the cold. The door was opened by the small, gnarled hand of a small, gnarled woman. She quietly regarded me as I waited in anticipation on the porch. Then opening the door full, she welcomed me into the warmth of her home with a tired smile: "pase adelante." I entered her house with an eager step, eyes open to soak up what I could. I kissed her with the obligatory kiss of a stranger, to do what was expected. Then with her lips she pointed to a plastic chair and I sat as she went about her work.
She is Honduras, and I have come to know her.

I watched her as she began to prepare a plate of food for me. Her hair was drawn back, growing sparse like the mountain forests. Her aging skin, the color of roadside honey, her hands, worn with the work of many mornings and her arms as strong as ceiba trees. Her belly and hips were casualties of the joy she took in her many children. Over her old skirt she wore an apron with yellow frills, in which she kept the earnings of the day, selling tortillas and mangos. On her back was a second-hand shirt made by the sweat of her children. When she smiled, warm as the tropic sun, her teeth showed like scattered kernels of corn and her eyes sparkled blue like the waters of the northern coast.
She is beautiful, though she doesn't know it.

She set the plate in front of me: rice and beans, golden plantains, fresh corn tortillas, a lump of cheese, and smooth mantequilla. I began to eat and continued to study my hostess. I saw on her arm a bruise where her lover had gripped her too tightly. A foreigner from the north, he came with a strong grasp to take from her what he needed. He still hangs about the house, their relationship close and amicable, but the power differential is clear. She loves him and hates him. He will never leave, and she would never leave him.
But she is strong, though she doesn't know it.

As I sat at the table, savoring the food, her children were passing back and forth through the kitchen. Some children were well-dressed with long-toed shoes, others were dirty from working in the garden. One eyed me to the side as he passed, flashing an 18 tattooed on his wrist. Some were leaving through the back door, chasing a dream, but the children kept coming out of the bedroom to fill their place. The more I watched, the more I understood what they were about, but I could never claim to really know them. They spoke to me with grace and I to them with broken lines and phrases unsure, but somehow the meaning made its way through the muddled words, cutting windows into their eyes so that I could catch a glimpse inside. At times the windows stared, and at times, looked away.
They are my brothers; oh, that I would know it.

I am full and it is time to go. I look sadly at the plate. So much food has been left on it that I couldn't finish. My hostess smiles and shakes her head, takes the plate away, and gently leads me to the door. A tear hides in the corner of her eye, and one in mine, but perhaps the tears mean different things. One last embrace and I am gone. As I walk out the door, my legs are a little stronger, my skin is a little darker, my belly a little rounder, and my eyes, hopefully, a little wiser. Mucho gusto, Honduras, and thank you for your hospitality. My dinner with you has left me satisfied and wanting more.

the end

so my mother has informed me that my blog needs closure.

well i am home. or at least one of my homes: biola. im having fun.

i told you at the beginning that i wasn't always good at keeping up with these things. the last month of the program got a little crazy, and so the blog was one of the first things to go. brushing my teeth was next. just kidding.

after i got back from the final week in San Pedro Sula, we only had a few days to compile and give our class presentations. i did mine on immigration. i sort of developed an interest in the issue of immigration this semester. then we all dispersed for holy week. i was tired and stressed, so i stayed in Teguicigalpa. it turned out to be a good thing, because i got to see the biola short-term missions team when they came. it was really great to see friends and be with people from my school. a little bit of home. the next week my parents came to visit me. this was fun for me and them. over the weekend we went up to the mountains to see what was up there. in the mean time, we started our third and final class on development practice. the weekend after my parents left, i went to el salvador with some friends. i surfed for the first time. it was great, but getting out of the ocean was a little rocky, if you know what i mean. i was pretty scraped up and sore, and i lost my toe ring, but it was great.

the next weekend i went to a small rural village called Guanabano to do my field practicum. 9 days. 80 hours. 1,000,000 degrees under the sun. 2 showers. here is an excerpt from an email about what happened:

The field practicum went well. Or as well as could be expected. It was really one of the hardest weeks in my life, but also a very rewarding one. Since my project required that I approach strangers and ask for their time and put myself out there (things that I find uncomfortable and usually avoid), I was made to experience things that I usually don’t. Remember how I wrote before about being social and if it is a requirement or an opportunity? Well I really saw how getting to know people can be so rewarding and enlightening. I met and conversed with and connected with these rural farming men and women, who are so completely different than people with whom I am accustomed to interacting. While approaching them in their houses was hard for me every time, every time I was blessed with their kindness and openness, and talking to them gave me insight into who these people were and what this community was like. They invited me to eat with them, they joked with me, they gave me their stories when I asked them. I was so tired every day, but every day when I came back to the place I stayed I felt rewarded by the people I had met.

i got it done. now im going to write it up.

the final days in honduras were weird. a little stressful, having to get homework done, presents bought, farewell parties gone to, time spent with the fellow students who had become my brothers and sisters in the past months...mother's day was the last day in honduras, which is pretty much the biggest day in latin america next to christmas. and as all the hondurans were partying, i just sat there with a completely different mix of emotions than the people around me. i stayed at the celebration as long as i needed to, kissed them goodbye, then left to meet some friends. we sat at the feet of a statue of kennedy (our neighborhood was named after him), and soaked in the weirdness of our last night. nothing really significant was said. it was just the being there. and then the last walk back through the empty streets. the quiet cool air, the tight feeling in our chests, the anticipation of Home. that was our last night.

let us not even talk about the weirdness of the next day. but it culminated in joy.

im not sure if im ready to write about what i learned, or "how it was." so im leaving this entry as is. maybe i will write about it later. for now, i will let you read something i wrote as a sort of summary, or a farewell to honduras. i read it at the goodbye session for our group. i barely kept my voice steady by the last paragraph. anyway, i hope you like it. if you don't, that's cool too.