Happy 187th Birthday!

9/15/08

This morning, the morning of El Salvador’s Independence Day, I found myself in a parade.  I was helping manage the kids of my school (grades K-9) through the long, sunny parade route.  Many of them are about half my height, so I stuck out like an ungainly weed as I moved up and down the lines nudging kids into place and making sure they raised their pompoms when Don Luís whistled. 

 

In front of the ranks I was managing went our three “Red Cross” girls in paper nurse hats carrying water jugs, our six dancers in indigenous garb, our adorable little pompom girls in yellow Bo Peep-ish outfits, our three baton twirlers, our band, and our flag guard.  The sharp, handmade costumes that came out of nowhere at the last minute really did the trick.  Our school made a good showing.  The band even played better than in their rehearsals, which I’ve been enduring for the last six weeks.  I think they may have won best band over the high schoolers.

 

The parade route was long and sunny.  The Red Cross girls were indispensable.  Some of the smaller kids looked at me and slumped their shoulders in exhaustion, but kept on with no more complaint than that.  We reached the center of town, circled the block, and stopped in front of the church.  The band faced the church and kneeled down, continuing to play their instruments.  Then we marched into the middle of the park to present ourselves to the gazebo where the mayor and other dignitaries sat. 

 

Hundreds of people lined the parade route.  It moved so slow that I feel like the kids parading and the crowd mostly just listlessly stared at each other as the various bands thundered away.  Mothers, brothers, and sisters stayed even with their family members, periodically offering drinks or a moment of shade under an umbrella.  In the park, when we finally dispersed into the crowd, I got poked by numerous umbrella spokes.  There are people who are of such a height that they don’t face this problem, but I am not one of them.

 

After sandwiches and apple juice courtesy of the mayor, our girls in indigenous dresses did a dance in the park in which they swung around little comales (pottery plates for cooking tortillas) with little paper tortillas taped to them.  They were adorable.  In fact, despite what I say about the listless staring, the parade was a beautiful spectacle.  Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, though this is not something Salvadorans are particularly skilled at showing in mixed groups (i.e. groups that aren’t a soccer team in the back of a truck).  I loved seeing the whole town out, dressed up, and engaged in the event.  It felt good to see a friend here and there I could wave my pompom at and smile. 

 

Next year I think I’ll practice with the band so I can march in a sharp uniform myself.  Maybe I’ll manage to make even more of a spectacle of myself than I did marching among the first graders.

Espresso, books, and the return of Don Tomás

September 1, 2008

It’s the first of September and I woke up this morning to light rain and dense fog, which has since lifted, but it’s still gray and sprinkly. I’ve had three cups of coffee, not because of the weather, but because I got a new coffee apparatus from Samantha and Christopher yesterday. They’ve been busy moving out of their house in town; they’ll spend their last two weeks here with a friend, then their first two weeks in New Orleans with her mom before moving into their apartment. A month’s gap between rents.

So they’ve been trying to give me everything in their house. As someone who sees some sort of use in most things, I’ve accepted most of it. Fridge, table, nightstand, 50 books, teapot, spices, leftover pasta and bbq sauce…etc. etc…and a stovetop espresso maker.

These little screw-together silver espresso makers have such panache, I’ve always wanted one. So, once I’d woken up with my normal morning cup of drip coffee, I had to test the new paraphernalia out with the two different coffees I currently have, and now I’m wired on a gray day.

My library is looking good. A mosaic of colors and titles, the spines speaking of all the good stuff inside, companions in my solitary house. 71 unread titles.

The noise the fridge makes when it kicks on is a new presence in the house. I’ve made it a mindfulness bell. Pause, come to the present moment. Put some ice in your glass of water.

I’ve been getting more and more comfortable with the neighbors, where I’ve been going for most dinners these past 2½ months. The household comprises 5, more or less. Fermina, who’s maybe 55, her daughter María and María’s 9-year-old son Josué, a 16-year-old granddaughter, and a 6-year-old grandson whose parents are in the U.S. María’s husband Israel, who’s from a nearby village, often spends the night, arriving late and leaving early—when María isn’t on duty as a nurse in San Miguel, that is. A typically mish-mash Salvadoran household. I get on well with all of them. We joke and watch Pooh cartoons and talk about other people in the community and it makes me feel good.

Recently Fermina has been ill. She spends most of the day in bed and talks to me about how she’s going to die soon and I’ll come to her wake and drink coffee and eat sweet bread. Friends and family often come to sit by her bed and sing hymns (although I haven’t seen her mother, a feisty old lady who lives on the other side of the hill and talks my ear off anytime I go visit her). And just a few days ago Fermina’s husband Tomás came back from Miami.

Now I never expected to meet Don Tomás. The last time he visited was 18 years ago, and he never communicates with his wife. He didn’t even bother to tell her he was coming this time—he just called Israel to come pick him up. I guess he’d heard Fermina was sick and felt he should visit, despite being totally estranged.

And since he’s been here I haven’t seen him or Fermina say one word to each other. While he was out one evening Fermina complained to me, in her smiling, fatalistic way, about how he hadn’t been able to bring one person from the family over to the U.S., while another close relative—a woman, at that—had paid the way for four others. My conversations with Don Tomás have mostly revolved around his work in Miami and the weather. Night before last when I was over we hardly spoke; he was wrapped like a cocoon in the hammock in the living room, a silent lump that everyone just walked around. I’m curious about how awkward it is for them, or what they’re feeling. Salvadorans are so amazing at taking everything in stride. Imagine, an estranged husband/father/grandfather showing up after 18 years and occupying your living room hammock! What else to do but carry on with things as normal.