Stories From My Father
When I was growing up, without my consent, the universe—and my mother—deputized me as my father’s “sidekick.” Every time he had an errand to run, a short day trip he had to take, I was the kid my mother sent with him. I became the Hardy to his Laurel, the Peele to his Key, the Pikachu to his Ash.
“Go with your father, make sure he’s okay,” she’d say.
I’m the minor, I’d usually think, but was smart enough not to say, He should be looking after me. What am I going to do? I don’t even have a credit card.
It was during these outings, however, that I started to get to know my father. My dad and I are similar in terms of temperament. We both have outlandish senses of humor (he was the parent for instance who first introduced me to Monty Python). We both, at first, appear very serious, but can quickly become charming once we feel comfortable around the people with whom we’re sharing company. Most of all, we’re both, naturally, very quiet, especially in large groups. The best way to get to know us is to talk to us one-on-one. Well in many of those outings and daytrips, we spent a lot of time in the car. In the car…without the radio playing. So naturally, there was lots of talking.
Over several of those outings, my father finally told me the story of how he ended up coming to the US for the first time, and what happened when he got here. It’s that story that I’m going to tell you.
While growing up in Honduras, my father and his family were major supporters of the Nationalistas, the conservative political party in Honduras. They did lots of supporting for them, at great personal risk too. In Honduras, Politics is virtually indistinguishable from Gang Warfare. The only difference is the politicians wear suits, and the gang members have tattoos. But both of them are criminals, both of them have guns and know how to use them, and both are interested in only one thing: lining their pockets. And, whenever one party’s in power, it’s virtually impossible for a supporter/member of the other party to get any job related to the government.
My dad at one point, worked as a mail carrier in the pueblo of San Ignacio. He’d ride his bike all through town delivering the mail. He did that all through the time when he was young and the Nationalistas were in power. The second the election went through, and the Liberals took control, the new Liberal head of the office fired him. That’s how petty politics can be.
Still, he kept supporting them, especially while he was attending the National University in Tegucigalpa. Like all Universities in the US, the Universidad National de Honduras has a student Union. But unlike the Unions here in the States, this is one where campus politics and debating take place. In fact, most of the students who become big cheeses at the University Union eventually go on to become professional politicians themselves. Many of the students, in fact, join the union and become student politicians for that reason. Like it or not there is good money in Honduras politics (so long as the party you back is in power).
One particular year, while he was a university student, my father helped to campaign for a particularly sociopathic student politician, who had the dream of going on to lead the Nationalistas.
Here’s how sociopathic he was. During a debate, after he’d thoroughly trounced his interlocutor, fair and square, his adversary insulted him to his face. His reaction was to pull out the gum he had in the back of his pants and hold the man at gunpoint until he apologized. (Seeing stuff like that all his life gave my father a life-long loathing of guns and a low opinion of the people who use them.)
Luck of the draw, the guy won election to the head of the student Union. For helping him, the politician said he owed my father a favor. Anything he wanted, he would insure he’d get for him.
Now, by this time, my father knew better. The three groups of people you never trust or accept favors of are Politicians, the Military Police, or Gang Members. And for years, other politicians my father had campaigned for had offered him the same deal, and he never took it. He never took anything from anyone because he knew, if he did, it would put him at risk. (Like I said, politics is like gang warfare, and they know how to use guns.)
But this one time—this one and only time—he did ask for something.
“Find me a scholarship that can get me the hell out of here, and we’ll call it even.”
And sure enough, he got one.
It was the late 1980s, when Ronald Regan was in office. At that time, Regan’s administration—like many administrations before it since Truman’s days—was still obsessed with the spreading influence of Communism. The on-going Cold War between the US and Russia, the war between the Contras and the Sandinistas in Nicaragua, and the continuing tensions with Cuba made the United States eager to endear itself to potential allies. Honduras was one of them. To do this, Regan’s cronies started a program call USDAI (as least that’s what my father always called it, because I’ve never been able to find much info on it since).
USDAI was an international education program. The goal was to entice countries to remain democratic republics by offering their citizens one thing they all valued highly: an opportunity for self-betterment through education. The way it worked is the United States would give any citizen presently enrolled in college the chance to come to the US for two years, fully paid for on the American dime, and earn the equivalent of an Associate’s Degree at a US college.
As promised for his help, el loco politico pulled some strings to make sure my dad got one of these scholarships. (Even in a third-world country, it always helps to know somebody.)
By that time as well, the only person my father knew in the United States was my mother, who was back in St. Louis, living with my Great Aunt Martha. So, on his application, he requested that the program send him to St. Louis. Not only would it give him the chance to get a good education, but he could also spend more time with her. Two birds, one scholarship. However, by some strange twist of fate, which to this day he doesn’t know the details of, the program didn’t send him to St. Louis.
We don’t know why this happened. Maybe the idiot putting his application through was stoned out of his mind or black-out drunk in attempt to drown out his own existential angst about being a paper-pushing bureaucrat. We shall never know.
Instead of coming to St. Louis, my father ended up in a place called Asheville, North Carolina.
(I can hear you all cringing as I say that.)
Really, the only bad part about that phrase, “Asheville, North Carolina,” is the North Carolina part. The Asheville part is okay, because essentially it’s a time capsule. It’s the place where everyone who didn’t want Woodstock to end moved after Jimi Hendrix left the stage.
The school in Asheville that USDAI expected my father to attend was Warren Wilson College, a very good private university. And while the school was wonderful, situated perfectly in a part of Asheville that was part mountainous woodland and part farmland, which made it very similar to the pueblo dad grew up in, it had only one problem. Warren Wilson didn’t offer any Associate’s degrees.
But my father was here, so instead of moaning over the situation, he made the most of it. During this time, he commuted between Asheville and St. Louis during breaks to be with my mom, as he couldn’t go back to Honduras during his stay. This gave them the opportunity to let their friendship deepen into something more.
Quick side story. While my father lived in Honduras, he’d never eaten a potato in his life. Potatoes aren’t part of the typical Honduran diet, as they are in other cultures. But once he moved to Asheville, which is where a lot of British settlers had come in the early days of US history, in the cafeteria, there were potatoes every day. Mashed potatoes. French Fries. Hash Browns. Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes. One year, my dad had come back to St. Louis to my Great Aunt Martha’s home during Thanksgiving—another thing Hondurans don’t have. And my Great Aunt Martha, to celebrate his arrival, had made this lavish Thanksgiving dinner Turkey. Cranberry Sauce. Stuffing. And, of course, mashed potatoes. Well, the second my father stepped into the house, and caught a whiff of those potatoes wafting through the house, he leaped back outside because the smell made him so nauseous.
During these visits though, my mother would advise him on how to get improve his college experience. The first thing she suggested was he get Warren Wilson to transfer his credits from the National University (he’d accrued a whole year’s worth before coming to the States), and have them apply it towards a Bachelor’s. At first my father didn’t think it would work, but he tried, and sure enough the school accepted the credits.
So for two years, this continued. Then came the day everyone had come to dread: the day the money from USDAI ran out.
By this time, my father had three years towards a four year degree, and he wanted to finish it. However, with the funding from the program now depleted, he had to look elsewhere to find it. If he didn’t have the money to prove he could reenroll for next year, the US wouldn’t renew his student visa. So, he went to Warren Wilson’s Financial Aid Office and spoke to the guy in charge of it.
“Isn’t there any money I could apply for, any fund I could try for?”
The guy started flipping through his files. Most of Warren Wilson’s students were already on Work-Study programs. Part of my father’s earlier scholarship had relied on that, so that part was no problem. The rest, however, looked to be a problem. Finally, though, the financial aid guy found something that could work.
“Well, we do have this fund set aside for Native American students. You got any Native blood?”
In fact, my father did. But not from any North American tribe, dear listener, that you would’ve every heard of in your lives.
My Abuelo Santos was a full-blooded member of a Honduran native tribe known as the Lenca tribe, one of the largest indigenous groups in Honduras (you can look us up, we have our own Wikipedia page). They were direct contemporaries of the Maya, and came into frequent contact with them. Probably the greatest claim to fame the Lenca has though is that the country’s money shares its name with a noted member of the tribe: Lempira. Lempira was the chief of the tribe, and the last chief to hold out against the Spanish conquistadors during the period of colonization. In the end though, after his assassination, the Lenca people fell.
Many people of the tribe still live in Honduras to this day. We’re notable for three features: our height, our hair, and our complexion. Lenca men in particular tend to be tall, usually six-foot or more. Our hair is always jet-black, and we tend to keep it for the whole of our lives, and as we age, it turns pure white. Finally, our complexion is usually dark, making us look like everyone’s usual picture of either Native North Americans or Native South Asians, for whom we’re regularly confused.
My father explained all this to the financial aid guy, unsure if it would count. But the man said., “What the hell, see if they’ll accept that.” He gave my dad an application.
My dad got the scholarship, and he graduated the Spring of the following year.
After hearing that story, I concluded that my father and I shared one more trait: he’s also the parent from whom I get my propensity for good luck. Some people are simply born lucky. Not lucky in that they’re born into remarkably affluent circumstances, which my father definitely was not. In fact, if that were the only sort of luck, he was sorely lacking it from the get-go. Everything in his early life—where he was born, his parent’s lack of wealth—should have insured he’d never amount to much. But there’s another kind of luck too: the luck people, who decide they’re going to achieve something have. Once they set their course, everything seems to go their way. That’s my father’s luck, and it’s the luck all of his kids, including me, have. Unless you believe some all-seeing, all-knowing divine being is favoring your adventures in life, which I have a hard time believing, what other explanation could there be?
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