Of Lives and Crosses-Stories From the Place Called Duran

8/14/2019 Of Lives and Crosses-Stories From the Place Called Duran

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CHAPTER 2: JESUS ACCEPTS HIS CROSS.

Bring your brokenness to me.Where pain is, here I am.I cry too, I suffer with you.You are mine, your joy and sadness.

So let us weep together.-Listening Journal, Ecuador

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Buenos Das, Seorita

When the light came at 6 oclock a.m., the roostersbegan to cry out, one after the other, as if part of a chain

reaction of cock-a-doodle-doos that cascaded from house-to-house across the sleepy city. Or perhaps it was only severalroosters from a few different houses who called back and forth

as a summons to one another, and to the world, that it was time.Either way, the localitys inhabitants, most of whom owned no

glass to put in their barred windows, heard the wake-up callsloud and clear.

Through the screen window of my small second-floorroom, I woke up sleepily, squinting my eyes at the light

pouring in. What time was it? Six twenty-five. I put my headunder my pillow.

Buenos das, Daniela. Buenos das, Juanito.

Buenos das, Seorita, the little voices responded.

Go over to the corner over there, with the Seora,who will read you a book while we wait for the other childrento arrive,the woman directed in Spanish.

I crawled to the end of my bed, pulled my knees to my

chest, and put my face near the screen to watch the children,whose arrival to the daycare, theguardara,funded by the

Nuevo Mundo Foundation, was becoming a steady flow.Fundacon Nuevo Mundo, connected to a well-respected highschool on the Puntilla, one of the richest areas of Guayaquil,

was financed by parents of students at the school, who firmlybelieved that early and good education could make a realdifference in the lives of children who grew up in otherwisequite hopeless situations. TheFundacon also financed aguardara in another part of Duran and two clinics.


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immediately ran over to me to hug my waist, fought to hold myhands, and touched my skirt and arms.

Buenos das, Seorita, they said in unison. Then aflurry of questions: What is your name? How old are you? Areyou from the United States? Do you have a car? Do you have a

boyfriend?

I laughed and hugged them, asking them some of thesame things: What is your name? How old are you? Do youhave sisters and brothers?

Estefania, Adriana, and Gabriela were seven years old,

in second grade, and they all had sisters and brothers. Theyasked me to write my name in their notebooks. Then they all

insisted on writing their names for me on a piece of paper. Iwaited until they finished, but it was clear that the visit was

becoming just another distraction to the classes still in session:

Other students were leaning out of their classrooms to call holato thegringa. I said goodbye and headed toward the gate.

What is your name? I asked the tall, bony girl with abig puff of frazzled hair who stood alone by the gate. Her hair

was like her eyeswild, unsure. She stood solemnly and

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stared, sucking on a piece of candy.And why are you all aloneover here? I wanted to ask her.

Elvmnln, came her slurred response.

Evelyn?

She nodded and stared at me, unblinking and solemn.

Nice to meet you Evelyn.

Her eyes were deep and sad. I stepped nearer to herand rested my hand on her shoulder. At my touch, her mouthopened slightly and then her face relaxed, breaking into a goofygrin. She slipped her skinny arm through the nook of my bentelbow, and then rested her frizzy head against my upper arm.

In the other end of the fenced-in schoolyard, little boys,and a few little girls, were chasing one another. Girls and boys

took turns on the single slide. The group of little girls I had justspoken with were playing a hand game and giggling. I tried to

imagine Evelyn running with the boys, her skinny long limbsflailing out everywhere, or whispering and giggling with thegirls, her frizzy head trying to lean into their inner circle. Icouldnt imagine it.

What grade are you in, Evelyn?

1st

I looked at her strangely. She was four feet tall, taller

even than many of the oldest children at the school, who werein fifth grade.

First? Are you sure?

She nodded her frizzy head.


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Whos in your class?

She pointed to the group of little girls playing handgames, and the small boys chasing one another.

How old are you?

Fur.

Four?!?

Yup, fur.

I dont think you are four. You are very tall.

FUR.

She said it emphatically, as if she really believed it.

How many years have you gone to school?

Her face was confused.

Is this year the first time you have been here?

She just looked at me.

Ok. I gave up on that question.Do you have any

brothers and sisters?

Her eyes lit up.

S. A brthr.

Great! Do you like to play games with your brother?

A teacher opened the gate to her classroom and beganyelling for the end of recess. Evelyn flashed her goofy grin,

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then obediently began to hurry toward her teacher. Suddenly,she turned around and came back to put her bony arms around

my waist.

Ciao, she said, with her face crinkled into a smile.Then she ran on her long legs toward the classroom,awkwardly leaning into the secretive whispers and giggles of

the little girls she followed, who ignored her.


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The right to be protected from violence and not to livein fear.

The right to live with dignity.

These are their rights from God, Seora Blanca said,and so I have to work for them. I have to work for them, shesaid, and this priestess rose to gather the ingredients for the

days meal.

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A Flower Para Ti

There was a little girl at Veintiocho named Mariuxiwho always carried her young brother at her hip, and who was

never allowed to leave the fenced-in area in front of her house,which was last in the line of houses before the dump. Each dayas I walked past, she seemed to play nearer and nearer where

the fence met the road I walked on.Hello, I would say to her.

Hola, she would softly respond, shifting herbarefooted young brother to her other hip, and looking away.

Do you want to come to the vacation program? Isometimes asked her, referring to the program I had started atthe makeshift school during the months when all the realschools in Duran were closed. I was trying to build a group of

kids who would attend a real community school, if it could beestablished.

She nodded, emphatically. You should come, then, Isaid.

My mother wont let me. I have to care for mybrother, she always responded, but then continued to stand bythe road, eager and barefoot, her eyes wandering toward theschool.

Once, her mother was outside the house scrubbing

vigorously at some clothing in a bucket when I arrived.

Hello! I called out. I introduced myself and told her

about the vacation program in the school, where the children doart and read and learn about many subjects for which there isnttime during the normal school year.

Can she come to the program today? I asked the

woman in a tattered T-shirt and shorts, who had dirt on her legsand her hair was tied back in a clumsy ponytail. Its just down


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We stopped at Julias house, and Miguel Alfonso ran

inside. We went to see Gladys and Jesus. We called out toMariuxis mother, who came outside. Maybe Mariuxi can come

tomorrow, I suggested. Her mother set down her wash,accepted the flower, and smiled slightly.

Down the main road and onto side streets, to this houseand that. The children rushed to give flowers to those they

knew and those they didnt.Ronald, I said quietly.Run andgive your flower to that woman over there and tell her you

hope she has a happy day. Say that we are from the school andask her if her children can come to the program tomorrow.

This is the beginning of the story of how we grew tolove our neighborhood, tried to bring life to it, and how it grew

to love us, too.

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CHAPTER 3: JESUS FALLS THE FIRST TIME

You feel how very wrong to the core arethe protruding bellies andthe stick legs of babies,

children vending on streets,the dirty hand of a two-year old beggar,a mangy dog,a dead child,a dead spirit.

By that wrongness you feel, you feel the presence that I Am,that I exist in perfection and that poverty is my opposite. I donot desire this that you see, and so your heart is heavy. Child,know the pain that I feel and be moved to do right.

- Listening Journal, Ecuador


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part of the Our Father prayer, sung during every Mass to thetune of Simon and Garfunkles Sound of Silence.

En el pan de la unidad, (In the bread of unity)Seor danos t la paz(Lord, give us your peace)Y olvdate de nuestro mal, (Forget our bad actions, our

sins)Si olividamos el de los dems. (Just as we forget those

of others)

No permitas que caigamos en tentacin (Dont permitus to fall into temptation)

O Seor ten piedad del mundo. (Oh Lord, have mercyon the whole world.)

I dont think the little girls knew the song. It was onesung often enough at the church in my neighborhood, but here,

miles away, where churches were scarce and where time andrides were scarcer, they seemed only to enjoy the melody. Theywere quiet, listening to the peaceful melody, and they huggedme tighter.

Otra, Isabelita, otra!

Ok, nias, ok. Ill sing another.

Noche de paz, noche he amor, (Silent night, holy night)

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Todo duerme en derredor. (All sleeps in calm)Todos tus ngeles que esparcen tu luz, (All the angels

shine your Light)

Bella anunciando el niito Jess, (Beautiful,announcing the birth of the little child, Jess)

Brilla la estrella de Beln, (Bright is the Star ofBethlehem)

Brilla la estrella de Beln (Bright is the Star ofBethlehem) . . .

andUna cancin para ti, para mi y que nos llegue al

pensamiento para vivir. . . (A song for you, for me, that bringsus thoughts about living . . .)

and then:

Pintarse la cara color esperanza (Paint your face thecolor of hope)

After the very short and eclectic repertoire of songs I

knew in Spanish, I turned to those I knew in English, but none Icould think of did justice to the love for these children I felt atthat moment, so I started to sing my own words and they

poured out

My beautiful children, how I love you, you are so

amazing and talented, beautiful children. If God could speakthrough my voice to you, he would say: Do you see I believe in

you? Do you know you are beloved? How I love you, mychildren.

They couldnt understand the words, but they alreadyknew them anyway. More kids came. They were all fightingto sit nearer. My legs were getting sore as I fought to stayseated on the too-small rock with children leaning in fromevery direction. But I didnt care. These kids were beautiful

and I placed my hands on whatever heads and shoulders I could

reach. They were Gods children. They are my family.


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They always wanted to know if postcards or letters had

arrived from their previous volunteer teachers.

When classes were over, we teachers joined thestudents on Nuevo Mundos large yellow school buses andrumbled out of this green, life-filled sanctuary of learning and

life on the Puntilla. The bus took the exit and crossed thebridge. At quarter after five, the sun was already setting; the

sky was pink and yellow and orange over the river as wecrossed the River Guayas to Duran.

As we approached Duran, there was the abandonedshipyard. There was the dirty-white wall with painted redletters: Duran, A Town that Progresses. There were the barson windows, the restaurantes with men lounging on green

stools, watching the buses and cars. There was brown, browndust that became a cloud in the sky when the buses rumbled by,then turned back into a dirty film over everything after itsettled. Everything was brown and grey with dust, rust, and

weather. The Nuevo Mundo bus crawled through Duransstreets, buzzing with laughter and the light voices of thechildren, in their bright uniform pants and skirts, with theircolorful backpacks and with exciting pieces of new knowledgeto tell their waiting families.

The bus slowed to a halt in front of the church. Thechildren filed out with their books and knapsacks to waiting

mothers and fathers.

As I stepped off the bus, I asked Juan, one of my

brightest high school students who was also a bus monitor,Are you looking for jobs yet for after you graduate? Im sureyoull have lots of opportunities, graduating from NuevoMundo!

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The boys face was dark. We are lucky. But manytimes they dont care what education you have, just that you

live in Duran.

What do you mean? I asked.

We are the poorest. They think we will steal from

them, that it is our own fault we are poor because we dontwant to work for our money.

I see.

A little girl with braided pigtails squeezed past me toexit the bus.

But I will show them, Juan continued. I will be

different.As the little girl leapt out the door, grasping her

waiting mothers hand, I wondered whether she might be oneof those who, in the future generation, might be stained by

Durans reputation, or whether she might, like Juan, be the onewho makes the new world a reality.


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White

Do you have fifteen centavitos for my daddy to buy cooking

gas?

You are so pretty. I want to be like you.

Please, can you teach me English?

Hey baby.

Can I live in your house? Can I only see the inside? Is thatnetting on your windows? Is your bathroom inside?

Can you give me a job? Do you need a cook? Or someone towash your clothes? A cleaner? I will do anythingwash

floors, sweep, tidy up your things, anything.

You wouldnt understand. You dont really know how it is tolive here.

Can I make you a meal? Please come to my house and myfamily will share with you.

Tssssst. Tsssssst. Come here, beautiful woman.

Please, I need medicine.

Please, there is nothing to eat.

Can you help me buy a house?

Take my picture! Take my picture! Me, me!

Do you miss your family?

Why is your skin that color?

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Can you teach me to drive your truck?

I wish I was white like you.

Is your family in danger? Do you worry about them? Yourcountry made a war and now many people hate thenorteamericanos.

If you miss your family, you can visit mine.

You are so happy. Is it because of where you come from?

Will you write to us when you leave? Will you forget meforever?

Can you change things for us? Can you do something? Look

all around at the poverty.

How big is your house in the U.S.? Do you have a car? Doyou have everything you could want?

We need changes here. There is sickness and hunger andthieves and violence and death. What can you do?

Please, Isabelita, please. Can you please take me back withyou when you go?

You are white, you have it all. You have different clothes for

each day of the week. You know how to drive a car. Youknow Spanish and English too. You eat well, you look healthy.You can go to the doctor and get all the medicine you need.

You are friends with everyone. They all like you and want tohelp you. You are pretty, you are white.


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Julia said to Yiseth at the start: If you are going to livein our house as Pedros wife, then you have to be a woman of

the house. You have to do what I say and share your part of all

the work.

Come here, Julia said. Peel these potatoes. Throwthis away. Chop these onions. Clean the floor.

But Yiseths eyes wandered away from whatever task

she was performing in the dark, well-shaded house and out thebright window. They saw the blue sky and the birds and the

marsh flowers and white butterflies, too. She heard some shinysong that was always in her head, and chop-chop, she cut offgood parts of the potato along with the dark holes, while therice cooked too long. Out in the yard she scrubbed andscrubbed Damariss dress even after the stain came off and

after all that scrubbing, she wore the material thin. Where isyour head? Julia said. You arent a good wife, youre just a

baby.

Yiseth knew that Julia was just jealous, that Pedro is somuch more handsome than the old scrubby man who drinks toomuch and beats Julia. Yiseth knew she was luckiest of all. Andshe wondered most of all if she would have a baby next yearwhen she turns 13 like Julia did.

The school days passed and summer time came, andthere were long stops at Julias house as she called me in to tell

me about the world. Youre just a child, she said. Look atmeIm twenty-five and Miguel is turning 12, and Damaris is4. How are you a woman? Youre unmarried, so nave!

And then Julia said, Please, can Yiseth come to yoursummer program at the school? Can she come soon?

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CHAPTER 5: SIMON HELPS JESUS CARRY THE

CROSS.

Listen in the silence. I have hope for this world. Willyou hope with me?



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Yeah, this day is going well!

But dont you think we should do this a little

differently? Isnt there a more efficient way?

He had ideas and IDEAS.

Hmmm. I said, trying to decide.

Dont you think the strong men should all go in thatcorner. They could work together and have something to show

for all the work? he urged.

Maybe, I said.

Im going to get Miguel Sanchez, and you can explain

this to him. And he started to go.

No, wait! A few moments passed. I tried to form wordsaround the feelings colliding inside, things having to do with

We the Powerful and Privileged always thinking we knowsomething, from our earliest imprints on this continent untilnow. Something about someone sitting in an office somewherewho would make decisions affecting people he did not knowand would probably never know. I would later forget thedetails, but only knew that we suddenly paused and asked:

Is this their project or ours? Lets just see.

And it worked. Forty-five people from Veintiochoworked to build the cancha, with fifteen North American

helpers.

Johannah and Darwin were barely able to lift theshovels but I remember their little brows sweating beside theirmother, Maria, and her husband and oldest daughter. I

remember Esteban and his younger siblings, Dairon and

Cynthia, looking longingly at the shovels the adults were using.

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Are there any more shovels, Isabella? they asked

wistfully. We want to shovel too.

But there were no more shovels. Instead, they usedtheir little hands to scoop dirt into old buckets and carry itaway from the pile to pour it into less filled-in areas.

Jose Castro, who is almost eighty, shoveled with ironarms: Dig, lift, toss. Dig, lift toss. The sturdiness of his beatcould have kept tempo for a song. At lunch, Jose Castro packed

his food between two plates, disappeared toward his house andcame back empty-handed a few minute later.

After lunch, we went back into the hot sun and weworked and worked and worked. The cancha was not

completed at the end of the day, but enough dirt had beenspread to play on. We decided on a soccer game as the victorycelebration. Not everyone had shoes, so shoes were shared and

players rotated in. Most of the women sat on the sidelines towatch. I felt smugly gleeful when I shocked the men by scoring

not one but three goals against them.


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I didnt know how to explain the strange energy thatmade my feet quick and my legs light after a days work in the

sun. It was an energy that I first experienced when the people

gathered, when they spoke with one another, when a visionformed on their minds, and when they began to carry it out.The field, though unfinished and rocky, was full of the energyof vision and of changed reality.

The determined vision of a people was forever

imprinted in my mind that day, and it was a vision thatsprouted something new inside me, something beautiful that

made me feel as if something special was on the horizon forVeintiocho de Agosto.

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Evelyns Invitation

I was walking past the school across the street from my

house, called Guayasamin,when Evelyn called out, Hola!from the creaking metal schoolgate where she was standing andsucking on a piece of candy.

Hola! I called back.

She beckoned for me to come nearer and when Iapproached the gate, she bore her frizzy head of hair into my

shoulder and hugged me tightly around the waist.

Whts yr nm?

Isabel.

Isbl.

Right. Is-a-bel.

Is-bl.

Is-a-bel.

Is-a-bl.

I smiled. Thats better!

She had to go back to her classroom.

Evelyn, I asked her, do you want to come to the afterschool program in the casa comunal?

Yesss! she cried. Ill arsk my mthr.

* * *


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Her mother frowned, and then sighed. I ask her

brother to help her, she said.

I had seen her brother helping at the after schoolprogram; he had taken the notebook from her and begun doingthe work for her.It is very good for Jhonny to help, I said,As

long as Evelyn is really learning and doing the work herself.

Yes, I know that Eveyln is a different kind of child.But with this little one

She looked at the baby in her arms, pulling at herbreast, wanting more milk.

And she is a very difficult child to get to sit still. . .

She paused. Truthfully, Im not sure how many more timeswe can afford to enroll her in school. When her brother,Jhonny, who is 13, begins working after this year, she mayalso. It may be best for her.

Eveylyns frizzy head bounded into the room. Shesmiled goofily at me, then went to hug her mothers waist. Iwondered, sadly, what type of job she would find.

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In Praise of Sandra

Sandra, what happened to you?

Why are you so different from these woman whoCower in their houses and wait for theStrong, hard, violent slaps of their drunken husbands whoReturn from drinking the money away and

Come home with nothingNothing

?

A strong woman

ProudConfidentSure of herselfIn charge and in control

WiseWhen I asked you, Sandra, to teach the childrenI scarcely believed that you said yes!

Sandra, Sandra!You carry the burden ofThe childrenThe womenThis countryOn your soul

You are Sandra andThey see youWhile they wait for you to fallFor you are a womanOnly a woman

Yet you stand in that classroomThe children grow hushedYoull never raise a hand against them yet you disciplineWhile still you love them, encourage them

You can because you believe

You are confident


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You are sureYou simply do it

And walk on

Thank you, SandraYou are hope

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CHAPTER 6: VERONICA WIPES THE FACE OF

JESUS.

A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within

you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone andgive you a heart of flesh.

- Ezekiel 36:26


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sacrifice for coming to the Christmas play may have been thatnights dinner.

Kenia and Esteban, two of the narrators, also did notcome, so Miguel Alfonso and Vanessa read instead in haltingvoices.

And the angel Gabriel appeared. He said Miguel

read.

The children were lined up outside the classroom, in

the order that they would enter the room. While MiguelAlfonso read slowly, the angel, played by Juanito, entered,holding the colored picture of the angel in one hand and thestar in another. He climbed up onto the chair, as planned, and

waved the star around. Then, with a look of angelic serenity, hejumped off. He climbed on again, and jumped off. The parents

laughed.

Juanito! I hissed, giving him a stern look. He stood onthe chair and didnt jump off.

Miguel Alfonso began again. And the angel Gabriel

appeared. He said, Hark! I say to you that a child will be bornto you according to Gods will. He continued in an exultantvoice, He will be called Immanuel . . .

Joseph came and Vanessas sweet voice, though

stumbling over the longer words, told of their trip toBethlehem, where Jesus was born in the manger.

Yovani and Ronald entered as a sheep and cow.

Darwin, Byron and Jose came to pay homage as kings, withtheir younger siblings as camels.

The narrators bowed, the people clapped and then our

voices rose in a beautiful, discordant chorus, joyously singing,

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over the dump, up into the smoky air, and to the worldsbeyond, about the blessed night in which God came to a place

not unlike this one.


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I have a friend who drives a bulldozer, MiguelSanchez said. He says he will use it on our field for free, if we

can pay for the gas. Do you think the foundation could help

with this?

We know some other people too. We have contacts inour neighborhood who know people who work in

construction, Jaime said.

We think Don Italo could get some more bags ofcement, Mercedes added. But we dont know when he iscoming next.

You see him at his other school, Isabella. Can you askhim about this? Monica chimed in.

Well take care of it from there. We just need thematerials, Sandra concluded. Then well finish the fieldourselves.

Italo had facilitated the building of the school thus far.He, too, was from Duran, but he had access to people with

power, people in the government. He was a networker and hisdetermination had helped him found several schools in Duranand had earned him the respect of the peoplethus they calledhim don, a title of respect.

The meeting flowed into the night. We circled up theplastic chairs. Alan came down with cups and water. Werethere other ways we could think of to get the rock, the

bulldozers, the cement? Who knew a connection? How could

they get others in the community to help out?

This night would waver in my mind for months, like adream. What makes a community suddenly become their ownleaders? I wondered. What drives people to, on one given

night, come together to make plans for change?

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I imagined how it could have begun, how the leaders ofVeintiocho de agosto, the community proudly named for its

date of founding, would have decided together to put on their

shoesor in most cases, their flip-flopsand march severalmiles from the dump through neighborhoods in which I hatedto travel, even during the day, to my home. The project of

building the communitys own playing field seemed so big, but

with heartstheir heartsthat were bigger, it would be done.


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kicking up duston purposethen ran at a vulture, startling it,and dashed toward the railroad tracks and the town and stores

beyond.

* * *

He bounded back when the rice was boiling. Marta

had already washed and cut the vegetables.

* * *

The cerviche was deboned, separated, and boiling in

the pot when the garbage trucks began to rumble over therailroad tracks, their open doors overflowing with trash, whichfell out the back and over the sides at every bump and jingle.They stopped in the garbage field ahead and excreted their

stinking loads in front of small groups of waiting rummagecollectors, who pounced on the piles like hungry vultures.

Several drivers sauntered over to Martas leaning

outdoor restaurant, shaded by a ripped tarp tied to cane sticks.

Marta, what do we have boiling in your tasty pottoday?

Cerviche, Juan Luis, same as always.

Fill er up, then.

He watched her scoop the rice onto the plastic plateand then the cerviche.

Marta, wheres that companion of yours? Haventseen him around.

You know where he is, Juan Luis.

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That woman in Recreo, shes nothing compared toyou, Marta, she should see you. Her eyes would be wide and

shed be jealous of that man of yours, for having you.

As wide as your eyes, Juan Luis? My man is going tobe jealous if he sees you right now.

You need some company? I can come over, youknow.

What I need is another serving spoon to whack somesense into you, if you dont stop it.

Go ahead, Id love for you to put some sense in me.

Juan Luis slapped his knee and the other men listening

guffawed loudly. He turned to his cerviche and piled thespoonfuls into his mouth, looking smug.

Marianita, you hear what she did? Rafael, another

eating man, glanced knowingly around the circle of eating men.She said in theDuran Press this morning that this dump isgonna be closed down. She says she came out here personallyand its a health risk to all the people of the city, she says.She says people like Marta there, who collect things, are ahazard. She says shes gonna close it all down. Shes gonna

move the dump to a place where she can put a big fence aroundit and not let anybody in.

Marta looked coldly at him.

A hazard? Who does our mayor think she is? Did sheever have her husband leave her for another family he had onthe side? Did she ever try to look for a job herself? Does she

know any of us who live here? Did she ask us? Were betteroff here.


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Rafaels dark, oily face glistened and he shifted hisdirty work boots.

Thats what I like, Juan Luis said slyly, an angrywoman. Marta, you

Shes right. Rafael cut him off. I wonder where

else theyre gonna put all this trash. You think its ever gonnahappen?

Juan Luis shrugged.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence.

* * *

At the end of the day, when the men had climbed backinto their trucks and rumbled, scooped, and rolled across thedump, and the sky was beginning to grow dark, Andres rushedhome from school and his friends houses, and leapt into his

mothers arms. Marta offered him the five spoonfuls of riceand cerviche that had been left inside the cauldron. Theyscrubbed the pot carefully and placed it in the center of theroom to dry. Then Andres squeezed next to Marta in theragged arm chair that had once been salvaged from the dump.They sat together with their steaming coffee and some bread to

dip inside. Marta thought of the next day and the next andAndres thought of his mother, so nice and warm. He knew hewould be safe forever with her. His heart felt warm like thecoffee and he dipped her bread in the cup for her. She ate someand then gave him the rest.

Andres, with his soft, dark coffee teeth, had lost onepermanent tooth already at the age of eight. But hed fallasleep in his mothers arms and forget the sticky ache. Martawould hold him tight and later set the content, sleeping body on

their bed before leaving the room to stare at the grey sky over

the dump, living the pain and dreaming of something better.

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CHAPTER 7: JESUS FALLS A SECOND TIME

Words are your language, but love is my language.

Watch how my people in Ecuador love one another. Watchhow they love you, a stranger in a strange land. Child, see and

hope in my future.- Listening Journal, Ecuador


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The Phone Rings at 7:47

It was 7:47 a.m.

I was about to tear a soft piece from the fresh, round,brown wheat roll that was my breakfast.

The phone rang.

Hello, buenos das.

Isabella?

Yes . . .

Isabelita? Isabelita, is it you?

Yes, this is Isabel!

Isabelita? Isabella? I need you to helpme

Then it was dead.

Hello? Hello?

Nothingonly the dial tone roaring in my ear. But thechilds voice still haunted me.

Esteban? Vanessa? Paola? You sounded so far away.

Your high voice echoed eerily. You couldnt hear my response.You said only that you need my help. Where are you? Whereare you, child? If I knew, could I help you? Can anyone helpyou? Will anyone ever? I will help you if I find you, but whatif you need help again, tomorrow? Who will help you

tomorrow? Who will help you when you discover you cannot

fulfill your dreams, not because of a lack of ability, but because

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so many obstacles are in you way, such as lack of education,nutrition, or opportunity? Who will help you when you have a

family and you want to move them away from this terrible

place, but there is nowhere to go? And when you find that youare trapped and without hope? Who will help you then? Yourlittle voice haunts me, child. Who can help you?


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Getting a drink of water.

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Ecuadors natural beauty.

The majesty of Quito and surrounding hills.

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A typical home.

Barrels to hold water from the Agua truck were the commonway of storing water.


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remained present and loyal through his death and the confidence would peter as she experienced a male-dominated


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suffering that preceded it.

After Christs resurrection, the angel appeared first to

the women, who had come to mourn with herbs andspices at his tomb. The angel proclaimed to them theGood News of Christs resurrection and it was the

women, who went to tell all the others.

Finally, in Acts of the Apostles, women such asTabitha, Lydia, and Prisca appeared as women leadersin the early church.

The examples were many. This new way of looking atthe Bible in the midst of a male-dominated society in whichwomen often had little, if any, power, filled our stomachs with

butterflies.

What did it mean that brave, often faith-filled actionson the part of a woman in so many instances in the Bible stoodas turning points in Gods salvation history?

What of Esthers and Marys and others confident,Spirit-filled action in the face of limited social conventions?

What of Christs invitation to women to become his

disciples or followers?

How did these stories relate to the situation of women

in Latin America today?

Maria, our frail, shy, friend, with such skill and speedon the sewing machine, sorrowfully remained living with thefather of her three children, despite signs of abuse, because shehad nowhere to go and felt that she had no recourse of law

behind her to take any action against the threats he professed he

would carry out if she left. Juliana was a woman of inner

strength and joy. A girl of nineteen, one wondered whether this

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world in which positions of influence in government, business,

and everything else were largely filled by men. The highlydesired jobs of Duranthe security guards and policemen, for

exampleswere filled by men. Construction workers and taxidrivers were men as well. Most working women ran makeshiftstores out of a window of their homes.

Juliana closed the book. Gloria announced: Now we

return to our sewing.

The machines began whirring, the scissors cutting, the

iron sizzling. The taller was hard at work, these women a smallpresence of strength in a difficult world, trying to marchforward with courage, confidence and Spirit. These were theEsthers, Marys, and Ruths of the present.

Fair


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CHAPTER 9: JESUS FALLS THE THIRD TIME

Here I am.Here I long to transform.Here are my children, the ones you forgot about, world.I am here to work justiceto love both the rich and poor, not

to hurt but to heal, to re-arrange, to redo, to guide and reveallove.

-Listening Journal, Ecuador

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When the buses roared by, the dust would rise in athick, gritty, suffocating cloud. Pedestrians would stop to turn

away, squint their eyes and cover their faces with kerchiefs ortheir shirt necks, coughing if, unthinking, they had actuallyinhaled the dirty, gritty stuff.

One hot morning, I stepped back from the road and

turned too late as a bus flew by, shrouding me with a dustcloud and shooting pebbles at my shins. I could feel the dustyfilm settling between the sandal straps on my feet and I

glowered after the bus, coughing.

Five minutes later, the bus I was waiting for finallyroared down the road and I stuck out my hand, hoping it would

stop. It screeched to a halt, unsettling another grimy cloud ofdust, and I ducked inside just before it pulled jerkingly away.The man with the money tray looked me up and down, took myfifty-cent piece, and beckoned for me to pass.

Excuse memy change?

What change?

Fifteen cents! I gave you fiftyyou owe me fifteen

cents.

Prices went up.

Prices didnot go up.

They went up.

The price is thirty-five cents. Look at your sign. It saysthirty-five cents.

Its not correct.

Y k h t t t? Y t i i

example of their government, like former presidents who ranff ith billi It i t i th t l thi k th


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You know whats not correct? You arent giving me

my change.

Pchhh.

The change-collector turned his back to me and

snickered with the driver, who seemed to be particularlyenjoying the days adventures of raising huge clouds of dust as

he pushed the pedal hard to gofasterover speed bumps andscreeched to a pause only at the last moment to let other

passengers on. Bump! Screeeech! BUMP! Bump!

I continued to standor tried toin the aisle, behindthe money collector, waiting for my change.

Disculpa, Seor, I said, hoping that he would be moreagreeable now that other customers were on the bus.Im stillwaiting for my change.

He ignored me and said something to the driver. They

snickered. My face felt hot.

What are you laughing about? About the fifteen cents

you owe me?

The money collector turned around and frowned, thenmade a point to look at every part of me except my face.

I glared at him. I crossed my arms. I stared intensely.I wouldnt let my eyes leave his face and they were not nice

eyes. I tried to make my eyes fierce and angry like the whitesun that had been giving me a headache all day.

When my stop came, I squinted my eyes even tinierand walked past them tall and with straight shoulders, thinking

smugly,Im standing up against the corruption that nobodyever challenges. People steal all the time, following the

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off with billions. It isnt any surprise that people think they

have to steal to survive.

I stepped off the bus confidently, but suddenly thedriver made the bus joltperfectlyjust as I was about to setmy foot on the ground, causing me to trip off the bus and fall

forward onto my hands. The bus roared away, covering mewith a shroud of brown dust.


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Cmo te llamas mi chiquita? Whats your name

considering how the president might explain to the people whythe cuts to social services are necessary We need to tighten


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Cmo te llamas, mi chiquita? What s your name,

little one? I repeat it gently, leaning down to her, but her eyeslook empty and she will not answer, and she scampers away to

someone else approaching, holding her hands out for change.

I look aroundwhere are her parents? Then I see her

mother, dressed in rags, sitting on the ground by a fence,watching through the legs of businesspeople passing back and

forth in front of her. She is suckling an infant who, I think, willsome day likely meet the same fate as her dirty, desperatesister.

She does not know--none of them know--that acrossthe street and thousands of feet above her, in one of

Guayaquils tallest skyscrapers, two men in fine business suitssit across from one another. The mahogany table between them

shines with polish, reflecting the sunlight that pours throughthe wide glass window overlooking the city below. Two SanPellegrino bottles have been opened but barely touched. The

darker man is sweating as he nods in affirmation of the whitemans insistence that the only way to gain control of Ecuadorsdebt is to tighten fiscal spending. He is not thinking of the

beggar-girl in rags. He is not thinking of the young boys whoride buses all day, trying to sell candies. The dark man is

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the cuts to social services are necessary. We need to tighten

fiscal spending. They surely wont understand this. Themeeting room, though perfectly climate-controlled and air-

filtered, suddenly feels as though the smog from outside haspassed right through the windows.

Guayaquil, oh Guayaquil.


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Im sure they miss you, Kary said. We miss you at


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Little Grains of Mustard

On the way to Mass, walking down a dusty streetwithout streetlights, trying to avoid trash and other rottingthings on the road, Kary stopped dead in her tracks beside me.

Those girls. . . I think. . . Yeah, they used to be in my

class at Huancavilca. I think its them They stopped comingmonths ago because. . . I think it was because of some problemat home.

The two girls walked with swinging, miniskirted hips,baring their skinny abdomens, and shakily strutting one skinny-heeled shoe in front of the other while kissing the air with

bright red lips. Their eye-lined, brightly-shadowed eyes lookedtoo large for their faces.

Mariana? Katrina? Karys voice sounded strange.How are you girls? I havent seen you in school.

They froze, wrapped up their stomachs with theirskinny arms, and nudged each other to speak back to her first.Teacher. . ., they giggled.

They could look everywhere else, but not directly atKary.

I miss you girls at school. What are you doing now?It was obvious, but she asked anyway.

Well, you know. Our parents couldnt pay for school.. . Their voices were high-pitched and nervous. Actually, wedecided not to live with them anymore. They. . . We can takecare of ourselves. They couldnt stand still, they shifted back

and forth, their eyes looked both sleepy and wild and all thewhilegiggle, giggle, that nervous, high, girlish giggle.

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I m sure they miss you, Kary said. We miss you at

school. You should come back. It was a plea.

We have to get going, Teacher.

Where are you going? Her voice was urgent.

To the city, they said, tossing their hair back and

giggle, giggle, giggle. Bye, Teacher, and they strutted offunevenly over ruby-red, skinny, spiked heels.

They think they are women, Kary said with sad, sadeyes, but they have no idea.

* * *

On Sunday evenings, the people came from all aroundthe neighborhoods to thePorcincula, the community church,coming in and in until the long blue rows were filled.

The music leaders started the first song:

Si tuviera fe, como un granito de mostaza esolo dice el SeorSi tuviera fe, como un granito de mostaza eso

lo dice el Seor

Yo le dira a esa montaa muevete, muevete

Yo le dira a esa montaa muevete, muevete

Y la montaa se mover, se mover, se moverY la montaa se mover, se mover, se mover

Si tuviera fe, como un granito de mostaza esolo dice el Seor

In English:

If I have the faith of only a grain of mustard,


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y g ,

this is what the Lord says (2x)I would say to this mountain, Move yourself!

Move yourself (2x)And the mountain, it will move itself, moveitself, move itself (2x)

If I have the faith of only a grain of mustard,this is what the Lord says

The woman in the old brown skirt held up her statue ofthe Divine Child as the priest entered.

An elderly woman with a hunched back skittered to thealtar and placed her bottle of water there, that it might be

blessed and become holy.

The little girl in a red dress danced and jumped next toher grandparents, who were clapping their hands energetically.

The man in green trousers raised his hands.

The people clapped and danced and shouted with theirpalms and voices and hearts, and the whole building seemed tosway with the singing voices, jingling bells, wooden flutes,guitars, and drum beat.

Singing and swaying and hoping, the people thought ofsalvation from the things they feared, and they knew they heard

God tenderly caring. I looked at Kary and we, too, thought ofsalvation, from the poverty that weighed down this people, this

country, the world. We, too, thought that we heard God, notonly in the spirit of the church but also in the giggles of thered-lipped prostitute girls. Enchanting giggles. Lost giggles.Hoping for confidence but instead yearning, pleading, crying,

begging, for a moving of mountains.

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CHAPTER 10: JESUS IS STRIPPED OF HIS

GARMENTS

Come here, where it is quiet. Ask to stay longer.

Sit and see, come and be in me. Rest in my presence and youwill be changed.Bring all these things to me and you will see differently, youwill learn how.



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ashamed and humiliated and demeaned that these strangerscome to look at you? Do you wonder why they stare at you?

O d k d h d?

Happy Birthday, Miguel Alfonso

Aft S t d ti I l l k d


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Or do you know, and are you ashamed?

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After Saturday soccer practice, I always lookedforward to the moment when, freshly showered, I would

collapse heavily into the porch hammock with a good book ormy journal.

In the serene quiet of the porch, only the occasionalpasserby or car would saunter past. Most of the neighborhood

was resting or inside on the scorching Saturday afternoons andfrom my removed solstice, I could choose to forget where Iwas and become lost in the fantasy of a good book. Or, I could

allow the images of the week to enter me more deeply:

The scabies on Yohvanis arm.The burden in Maria Paoloas eyes.A man bent down, his hands in the garbage.A child beside him.Vultures. Emaciated dogs.

A child wife, looking longingly through barredwindows.

and I would cry out to God to change these desperatesituationsto change all of us who perpetuate this povertytogether, actively and passively.

* * *

One particular Saturday afternoon, I waited hotly on

the main road, with sweat collecting beneath my neck under thefront and back rims of my t-shirt and the fierce sun painfully

bright for my squinting eyes. I sighed. Why had I said that Iwas free on Saturday and could attend Miguels birthdayparty?

I checked the inside of the plastic bag I was holding

the cookies I had baked had slid and were bunching on one sideof the metal plate. They would be melted together before the


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leftovers? I will eat my dinner soon and I wonder what yourswill consist of, Mauricio, and if you will eat. I hope that you

will. I hope you arent thinking of me.


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p y g

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CHAPTER 11: JESUS IS NAILED TO THE CROSS

I love this world more than you can know.I hurt more than you imagine.I call you to come. I call you to work for me instead ofyourself. Come, world!

Yes, it is time.

Now, it is time. Say yes and we will go. I will take you along. ..


Leonardos Family

It was 10 oclock or 2 oclock or 7 oclock or even

Please.Please.


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midnight, and there came Miriam, with scared eyes and a sweet

smile.

Knock knock knock knock. . . . . Knock knock knock

knock . . . . Knock knock-

Miriam, hello. Alan opened the door with tired eyes.

Seor Alan! Oh my padreyou are like my father,

you know?please, I beg you I ask you I need, please misterseor, padrePlease, my children have no food tonight.Please, Azucena and the two youngest, they have

bumps all over them. Look at my babies here as theywail on my hip!Please, it is hotter and hotter and the mosquitoes are

here. We have no nets, can you give us one or two?Please, I have been urinating blood. I dont know

what is wrong with me. I am so scared.Please, my house is going to fall down! The men in

the truck say that if I dont fill in dirt beneath, the house willkeep leaning and leaning and then fall.

Please, Im sure my children are sick with dengue.

They have fevers, they are delirious. I am so scared, pleasehelp.

Please, I have no money for school supplies. Just

some pencils and some note books. Maybe pens and eraserstoo.

Please, Leonardo will be graduating. Can you givehim some shoes? Or a clean white shirt at least?

Please, I cannot pay to fill our barrel of water.Without water we are so thirsty.

Please.

Please.Please.

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Please . . . my house smells like urine and I dont clean

it anymore. My house and my life, they are both falling downand to care for any of it makes no difference. Please . . . I amso depressed that my children cook and clean. I send my

children out to beg for food. Leonardo and Azucena arebringing up the youngest ones.Please . . . the fathers of my six

children have never stuck around. The double standard here, itkills mothers like me, it kills our children, and every generationthat learns and follows. Please . . . I am a woman and I have

learned no skill. I cannot work now because I dont know how.Please . . . there are no exceptions here for we who arementally slow. We suffer even more than the rest and for us,there is no way out of poverty. Please . . . he came home after

drinking. We asked, where have you been? Where is thefood? Have you brought money? No, no, and no. He onlywanted me. He left in the morning, still smelling of beer.


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of Mary or Gabriel or John the Baptist or Peter? Why Lazarus?Perhaps, I thought while gazing at the statue, it is because we

do not like to remember this Lazarus. How we do not knowL i h h h i i h i f f h

Smoke, Tires, Justice

One afternoon, in the casa communal, the communityb ildi i i hb h d I i b ll i h h


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Lazarus, neither when he is right in front of us or across the

world!Lazarus, to you and your dogs, we do not hand even ourscraps, I thought.

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building in our neighborhood, I was tossing a ball with the

children when the sky turned black.

It was not the entire sky, but a large area over the road

to town where I saw the black, putrid smoke billowing in largeclouds, up from an unknown source. Dread filled my heart.

Something is on fire.

A truck turned the corner onto the road and BEEPed its

horn loudly several times. The children scattered as itscreeched to a halt in front of the building. He spoke to Emilyand Miguel Angel through the drivers window and then spedoff, leaving behind the type of dust cloud that pours in through

the door, lingers suffocatingly in the air, and settles oneverything.

Was one of the childrens cane houses on fire?Did a burning garbage pile in someones yard get out

of control?Had one of the old, rickety buses crashed, exploded,fallen apart?

Was anyone injured?

I rushed over to hear the news.Is a house on fire? Iasked with fear in my voice.

No. Its a protest, Miguel Angel said. The burningsmell isnt wood from a house, its rubber from old tires.

It was then that I noticed that the sickness in mystomach wasnt just fear. A horrible, putrid smell was invadingour happy little program. Every molecule of dusty air was

being polluted by the sickening, acidic stench of burning

rubber.


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was everywhere, but it was no longer blowing or burning,sticky with the sugar water. A putrid chemical smell lingered

in the air.


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Protest signs that said things like, Listen to thepeople or Pave our roads or Justicia! were abandoned onthe sides of roads. No one was protesting any more. Everyone

feared losing their jobs if they did not work. They did not knowwhat to think of Marianitas statement to them, which said,

Sometime in the future. I am trying. You have to be patient.

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CHAPTER 12: JESUS DIES ON THE CROSS

My people are plowed down, knocked over, flattened, crushed,and left in twisted pieces by the powers that be.

Oh child of the God of Justice, I tell you that if it is not right,make it right. I bless you with love, with support, with all youneed. Go look for it, seek it out, Im waiting to give it you.

-

Listening Journal, Ecuador


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It was only later that we heard about the accident. It

was only then that I could imagine it clearlythe smell of themarket, the stopped cars, the short detour, and it all made

Not me


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market, the stopped cars, the short detour, and it all made

sense.

I could imagine him: the victim. The little lifeless body

all twisted and tangled, his limbs in all the wrong directions,his dirty skin covered in blood and dust.

Still.The women wailing.

Then a crowd gathered.The merchants, with one eye on their tables, had theother on the little dead boy.

The noise in the market place changed from the daily

selling song to a nervous, distraught chatter:What happened?Oh, terrible day!

Whose son is he?Where is that rascal bus driver? Just raced away,

gone like this.Pity, pity, no one can control those buses.

The bus driver, a block away, kept trying to turn away,to deny that it happened, but the watermelon man and another

man had his upper arms in an iron grasp and kept forcing himto look back. He struggled, struggled, and then went limp, as ifknowing suddenly that he would never escape this.

Everyone whispered:

Too fast, those buses go too fast.Pobrecitos. Poor boy, poor mother.

I imagined that the mother camewailing, that shegathered the small bloody body in her arms, that her heart felt

shattered inside, and that she suddenly drank deeply of the painof God.

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Me?

You have got to be kidding.

I didnt go to college.

I am a woman.

I cannot speak well.

These problems, they are too big for me to understand.

It would not work. Change is quite impossible.

Why dont the rich help us? They have money and education.They have everything.

Why dont the poor help themselves? I work hard and what Ihave I gained myself. Those people are lazy. I will not

promote their laziness and dependence.

Change must be inspired, and inspiration is a womans work.

I am an overworked man. I come home with an aching bodyand if I am to feed my family I must rest. I work hard enough

as it is.

Maybe tomorrow.

Only a mamita, only a housewife, I am. My job is to care formy children.

We just need to accept that this is how things are, and then doour best to succeed.

I am working too hard.


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I am too busy with my career. I must work first of all to

provide for my family. I will worry about those people on theother side of the riveron the other side of the worldlater.

I do not even know how to read and write. Look how mychildren learnit is up to them, it must be.

Resources are scarce and our country must keep its resources

for itself. We cannot go distributing them overseas. Nothingwill be left for us.

I might be hurt or killed. What would my family do? Better to

keep quiet and out of the way.

Let the politicians decide what is best. That is their job. I do not

know how to make things different.

The government must change first and they are all corrupt.

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g

I am young, I am still growing up. I do not know anything yet.

I am getting too old now. I have never seen things change.Why should they now?

I am old, let the young ones act.

This heat, its terrible.

No one else is doing anything, so why should I?

And so it is.

Shoe-shine Boy

At the Supermaxi, which is on the Puntilla on the wayhome from Nuevo Mundo, the polish-stained shoe-shine boy


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CHAPTER 13:JESUS IS TAKEN DOWN FROM THECROSS.

Turn your face away from this place of death and gaze on me.This is not the final end. This sadness, this suffering that makesyou want to wrap your arms around your head and cry into

your kneesthis is not the final end. This is not my intentionor dream.

Turn your face away for a moment and see my dream, therenewed place where entire communities comfort mourning

people and their sadness disappears because love heals.

See my place where no one thinks as distanced individuals butas unique members of a united community where all are valuedand connected, aware of one another as much as of oneself. So,

then, I call you to be in the world of sadness, to deny that thiscan be the final world, to always hope, and to make myrenewed world a reality.


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begged to shine my shoes. Im sorry, I said, stepping out of thecar, pointing to my sandals. He had better luck with Alan, whowas wearing dress shoes.

He hunched over Alans shoes, his back curved, his

eyes focused and determined. He plucked two brushes fromhis kit and draped a rag over his arm, and his hands began tomove. Dexterous and skillful, they were hands made to fly.

What technique! What efficiency! How he swifted therag over Alans shoes with his dancing hands that barelyseemed to touch the leather, yet made it sparkle and shine.

He was a child with the eyes of an adult, and he worethe determined but tired expression of a desperate workingfather.

What is your name, little boy? I asked when he wasfinished.

Jose, he muttered, holding out his hand to Alan forthe coin.

How are your brothers and sisters? Alan asked kindlyas he handed him the coin. Alan often saw this boy, andsometimes his siblings, at this gas station. He lived in CerroRedondo, a neighborhood in Duran.

We are all fine, the boy said, and then scamperedaway to the next car pulling up, his skinny arms and legs,which poked through his dirty, hole-filled shirt and shorts,flailing.

I wanted to call him back.


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We kept walking, slowly. Seora Carmen put one footbefore the other and moaned all the while, until finally, after a

short eternity, we were there.


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We entered the gate and I saw the table set up in theback with a large pot and some cups. Young men were perchedon stairs, waiting. Children were playing around their mothers.

And many, many older persons, like Seora Carmen, werehunched over and tired, waiting for food that would perhaps be

the only meal of the day to strengthen their tired, hurting oldbones.

Thank you. Goodbye, mi hija, she said, as weapproached the table.

Goodbye, Seora Carmen, I said, feeling like crying

for her, hugging her, waiting for her, and taking her back homewith me, all at once. Someone can walk back with you? Shall Iwait?

No, mi hija, she said, patting my hand. These

people heremy familythey will help me home. And withthat, she sat down heavily on the stoop to wait for the food, likeevery other day.

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CHAPTER 14: JESUS IS LAID IN THE TOMB

Taking the body, Joseph wrapped it [in] clean linen and laid itin his new tomb that he had hewn in the rock. Then he rolled a

huge stone across the entrance to the tomb and departed. ButMary Magdalene and the other Mary remained sitting there,facing the tomb.

- Matthew 27:59-61(NAB)

Comfort, give comfort to my people, says your God. Speak

tenderly to Jerusalem, and proclaim to her that her service is atan end . . . Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and allmankind shall see it together, for the mouth of the Lord hasspoken. A voice says, Cry out!

- Isaiah 40: 1-2, 5-6 (NAB)

I am powerful enoughto raise the dead,to bring hope to despair,

to summon in what you thought could never be.Wait by the tomb, but know that I will rise.I will rise through you!

- Listening Journal, Duran, Ecuador


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Right, but of all you see in Duran?they said. Whatdo you think ofla pobreza and the children begging on streets,

the robberies, the gangs, and all of us who can offer younothing more than a visit to our small, humble farm? And what

do you think of our government?

Be steady in the boat and dont look over the side andhold on with both hands. Thank you for coming and go with

the angels.

These were the women who folded us into their large


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do you think of our government?

The government, yes . . . the government. I guess I

think that someone with inner strength, determination, self-confidence, pride in their country, and charm, but who is filled

with love for the people here, needs to change it.

Ha! Who is that person? He doesnt exist. The

uncles grimaced wryly.

All together in one pot, the aunts mixed it, and cookedit, and the scent was delightful, wafting from the kitchen to the

sitting room so that the men and children and guests all smelt itand our stomachs rumbled and desired. The aunts called usand they smiled, they delighted, offering heaping plates ofchicken and rice to the hungry guests. The blood and juices ofthe process had disappeared with their aprons. The stern

expressions left their faces but they watched us very closely.

Papi, eat up. Dont you like it?The largest portion is for you and you must eat it all.Boys, get up, show some respect and give those seats

to the visitors. You can sit in the other room.Would you like to know about our farm?Do you want to hear little Jose recite a poem about

Ecuador? I taught it to him for fifteen nights and now heslearnt it.

You will take some chicken and rice home to eat later,dont offend us.

And finally,

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These were the women who folded us into their largebodies and hugged us warmly before we left, and who stood onthe side of the farmland and shouted alternately love and

warning as the boat pushed off. These were the women, thegreat big women, who bore heat and sweat and blood and guts

and boiling water and great big knives with perfect control.These were the women who cooked the chicken.


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Maria, we asked, Will you be all right? She nodded herhead, but her eyes were fearful. We hugged her. We stayed a

bit longer.

It was getting dark and this was Arbolito The name ofh i i Li l T d d i

She nodded.

But we were worriedworried for her. How would

Maria get around when the bigger rains came? How would she? W i i d h h k h h bi


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It was getting dark and this wasArbolito. The name ofthe community, meaning Little Trees, sounded so innocent,

but we knew what happens here after dark. We knew how, after

dark, the men who ran the neighborhood stopped cars on theroad to Duran. Well visit you soon, we said.

When? she asked fearfully.

Soon as we can.

Im scared, she said. Im all alone, she said.

Youre not alone. You have neighbors. They look verynice.

Im alone, she said. Only me and my baby.

Maria, Maria. Suddenly, her face crumpled like he hadalready found her.

No puedo! (I cant do it.)

Maria! Maria. Yes. Yes, you can.

No! No puedo!

Maria, look at me. Maria, what have you donealready? I know no other woman with the strength to do this,to move away.

Pero no puedo. No puedo.

Maria, you already did. Now all you have to do issurvive.

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Maria get around when the bigger rains came? How would sheget water? We imagined that the water trucks, though biggerand tougher than our vehicle, would fear getting stuck in the

mud and might not come down her street. How would sheprotect herself from the mosquitoes, thick from the marsh

behind the house, that were sure to invade her little cottage thatnight and every night? If we came back to visit her, would she

be in danger? Stalins father could see our truck and follow it,

or someone could spot us and tell him. And how exactly was

she paying for this new house? Where would she get the foodfor her and Stalin to survive?

We turned back to look and there was Maria, holdingStalin close, in her tiny remote house on the edge of the village

but high, high above the sticky, gooey mud that waseverywhere on the ground. She stood on her little porch andwatched us, waving slowly and looking scared, not knowing

what would come next.

Carrots and Rights

Marlene, who is five and who loves her mother, slid

off the bed, picked up the knife that was lying in the bowl andid M th I i t k di

Some students were laughing noisily in the classroom

and I hurried back over, calling back to her, Can you comeback when school ends? He might come then. But instead she

waited and waited in the hot sun for more than an hour, as ifh h d t d ld t ff d t i hi I


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off the bed, picked up the knife that was lying in the bowl andsaid, Mother, I am going to make our dinner now.

She crouched over the plastic washing bowl that heldfour rotting carrots and she began to gore out the spots of rot

with the tip of the knife. She made light lines down the sidesof the carrots just fine enough to brush away any bad soft spots.

Maria Paola, Marlenes mother, was a large womanwith sad, desperate eyes, who always had a sucking child

hanging from one breast. I first saw her at the gate of theschool and while the children were working on a project, Iwent to see what she wanted.

Y Seor Italo?

Im sorry. I dont know when hell be here. Maybe

later today?

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waited and waited in the hot sun for more than an hour, as ifshe had an urgent message and could not afford to miss him. Iwent to see her again when my English class was over.

I think he wont be here until the end of school, and

Im not sure he will for sure come then, I repeated, thinking shehadnt understood.

I will wait, Maria Paola said. It is about the

childrens school fees. I cannot pay them,she said. I noddedcompassionately. I knew that recently, her house had burneddown, leaving her and her six children homeless until a kind

nun offered them a small shack to stay in.

Finally, the school day ended and the metal door on thepreschool classroom opened, freeing Marlene and the othersmall children. Italo had not arrived and was probably busy

taking care of matters at one of the other schools he ran.

I will tell Italo that you need to speak with him, I toldMaria Paola.

I waved to her as the daughter, mother, and her tinybaby walked away together, trudging on the path of garbageand dirt in the direction of the smoke and dump.

* * *

Italo was able to work something out with MariaPaoloa, accepting her cleaning services at the school inexchange for enrollment for three of her children.

But another time she came to the school gate, and thenstill another time and another.


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* * *

One final morning she came to the gate. Seor Italo?

I inquired, presuming her question.Hes not here today. Imsorry hell come tomorrow

Men walked across the railroad tracks, returning tiredand dirty to their homes.

Two teenage boys pushed a wooden cart with a few

leftover vegetables.


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sorry, he ll come tomorrow.

I did not know she was waiting for me. She didnt askfor money. She didnt ask for food. She didnt ask for

medicine. She asked if I could come later and if she could ridewith her seven children in the bumpy back of the truck, justuntil some side of the road that was near where a doctors

office was. Her children, she said, they were all coughing and

withered with diarrhea, sometimes fever, and runny noses, too.They had been this way for weeks and she didnt know what todo. The little ones, she said, Im worried for them. I said,Yes!

She looked at me with tired eyes. When, Isabel, willyou come? Five thirty, I said, at the end of this road. I

pointed to the spot. I even know a doctor who likes to help the

people here in this community. He wont charge you anything.She stared at me for a moment, then said, Yes, five thirty,and trudged down the road slowly with her shoulders slumpedand her neck bent down toward the child on her hip.

I came at five thirty.I waited near the field.I watched the last garbage trucks empty their loads.I watched the bulldozers rumble slowly back and forth

across the field to crush and smooth the lumpy trash.I heard the bugs begin their nightly buzz.I slapped at mosquitoes.I thought I saw a butterfly in the field.I watched the vultures soaring eerily in the sky, which

turned red and then navy so that the fingers of smoke looked

supernatural over the trash.

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A man asked me if I wanted to buy some chicks. He

showed them to me from his burlap bag.

Maria Paola and her children didnt come.

It was too dark to navigate the garbage-packed roads to

her shack, and dangerous.

I couldnt understand: Maria Paola didnt come. MariaPaola didnt come?

Maria Paola, where were you? I would ask her later,exasperated, as I stood at the door of her house.

You really came?She looked both shy and upset.

Yes, I was waiting.

I had to make dinner, she said, and would not look atme. But when she finally did, there was something different,

something new, about the way her eyes looked that remindedme of Spring.


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The people follow the crucified Christ in a Good Friday

procession in Guayaquil.

Resurrection over the River Guayas.

Documents

Of Lives and Crosses-Stories From the Place Called Duran