¡Que Viva La Revolución!

According to Honduran folklore, during the 1500’s a massive Indian chief (cacique) from the Lenca tribe in the west of the country reigned supreme; his name was Lempira - “señor de la sierra”. Like most Indians, Lempira was the color of the earth, brown and red, with black hair that whipped in the air behind him whenever he deftly ran through the mountains. His body was like that of a panther - sleek yet strong, ever vigilant and ready to pounce in order to defend his territory. For the majority of his short life Lempira’s tribe defended their part of the land, El Cerique, against other indigenous groups in the area, until one fateful day…

The Spanish had established themselves in Honduras with hardly a qualm when Governor Adelantado Montejo, in Comayagua, decided it was time to expand Christianity into the west of the country, to the remaining savages, so their souls could be saved by the ubiquitous, true, and righteous God – theirs. I assume it would also be easier to confiscate property under celestial pretenses, particularly if the heathens were easy to convert, as simple minded as they were thought to be. Not one for soiling his fine clothes, the governor sent word of this “cleansing” through a party composed of his loyalists and led by Captain Alonzo Casares. The team set off for the long journey on horseback towards the green, rugged and lush terrain of the west - long before deforestation would claim the mountains.

Naturally, Lempira’s tribe scoffed at the requests of Captain Casares and swore to defend their land and freedom from the imperialists. While the Spaniards swiftly returned to the old capital and their governor, Lempira’s tribe united together with the other tribes in the area – the department now called Lempira - and made peace in order to show solidarity in the face of their conquistadores. They knew the governor would not be pleased with their adamant defiance of his new law and would soon be back to fight. The Indians would be ready and waiting - 30 thousand strong.

War ensued and lasted for six months. The adept Indians could not be defeated on their own land; a land that nurtured them, fed them, sheltered them, and clothed them; a land that was their mother; and in order to defend her honor they fought hard - without the luxury of guns, cannons, and ammunition - and were invincible. On the other hand, the Spaniards succumbed to disease, exhaustion, and to simply not being skilled at mountainous warfare. Blatantly out of place wearing silly curved hats, hirsute faces, colorful garments, and pale skin they did not camouflage into the environment as the Indians perfectly did – after all, isn’t adaptation to one’s natural surroundings, especially in the face of adversity, a biological defense displayed in most animals: from the quaint artic fox to the mercurial chameleon?

On July 20^th, one such victorious afternoon, Lempira and his soldiers celebrated by performing religious ceremonies on top of a large rock that tore out of the mountain. Two Spaniards waving a white flag approached on horseback. “Venimos en paz”, they claimed. Without leaving the security of their beast, they urged Lempira and his followers to convert to Catholicism. They solemnly explained that if the answer remained negative then they would have no choice but to continue the fighting. Obstinately, Lempira reminded the gentlemen that his religion, and that of his people, was of equal importance to them as Catholicism to the Spaniards. Therefore, his refutation of their proposal would remain. Suddenly, one of the Spaniards pulled a pistol from a holster hidden out of view and shot Lempira in the chest. The cowards galloped away to their governor who would claim victory in the name of God and Spain. Lempira quickly died and with his blood ran the ideals he fought for - ideals that were laid to rest and apparently forgotten – for his once faithful followers, out of fear, confusion, and complacence, fled the scene of his murder, thus betraying him not by the action of fleeing, rather by the lack of action to fight for what they believed in. The rest is history.

* * *

Fast forward to present time. Lempira is now exalted as a hero. The national currency, the Lempira (18.50 L = $1.00), bears his name as does the western area of Honduras – the department of Lempira - adjacent to the department I live in, Copán. And every July 20^th is a national holiday commemorating his struggle to remain independent of foreign rulers. The biggest celebration occurs in the town of Gracias, Lempira which also culminates the town’s annual festival. Unfortunately, due to work I was unable to travel to Gracias, thus leaving me to celebrate El Día de Lempira with my community in Corquín. Try, if you may, to take the melancholic events mentioned above, turn them into a socio drama, and place it at the mercy of 4^th, 5^th, and 6^th grade boys. Now bear witness:

As is the norm, the day’s events unfolded with a prayer followed by the very long himno nacional. A national anthem so time consuming, in fact, that it had to be officially shortened to five stanzas, yet still remains unusually lengthy. Afterwards the 5^th graders sang homage to Lempira and the entire school sang along. I’ve noticed in the past that I often hear singing coming from classrooms and now I understand why; Hondurans are quite fond of giving tribute in the form of song. My personal explanation for this is that the often reserved and shy Honduran never volunteers to give a speech, recite a poem, or sing solo in front of others so the only way to attain any desired public speaking is in unison through song. I have trouble in my classes when I ask students to read what I have written on the board from the comfort of their own desks, which leaves me with the same children always participating to read out loud and more often that not it is the males that are willing to volunteer. Though I will quickly mention that I do have one sixth grade class in which virtually every student is eager to read out loud and participate in all activities. My flesh tingles when I request a volunteer and see every hand raised high in anticipation, not just the usual ones.

Speaking of the usual ones, the singing was followed by the national dances of Honduras, performed by the usual active and intelligent children whom I have come to expect much from. There were six couples in order from youngest (and shortest) to oldest (and tallest). The girls all wore white cotton dresses with enormous skirts that had to be controlled by their hands for fear that they would move to a rhythm all their own. Their hair was tightly pulled back into a long braid and adorned with one red rose. Each wore several colorful plastic beaded necklaces and, along with a simple green, red, and yellow pattern embroidered on their dresses, was all the color they displayed. The boys wore loose white cotton pants and long sleeved cotton shirts, straw sombreros, and a red scarf around their necks. All wore black sandals. For fifteen minutes they smiled, twirled, hoisted up skirts, threw down sombreros, interlocked arms, and moved their feet to the same rhythm and flow. The dances were performed meticulously and received a loud applause from the audience.

At last it was time for the play about Lempira. Every single one of the actors was a 4^th – 6^th grade boy, about forty of them. Those playing Indians were barefoot, wore shorts covered in brown cloth, had paint on their chests and faces, feathers in their hair, and had make-shift bows and arrows (thank God the “arrow” tips were blunt or people would have been seriously injured). Those playing Spaniards wore blue jeans and long sleeved white shirts, curved black hats made out of cardboard, and beards and mustaches painted on their faces. For the following thirty minutes they acted out the events mentioned previously, complete with the shooting of arrows and cannons (using powerful fireworks in the middle of the crowd which I was amazed didn’t harm anyone) and hauling the dead and wounded away from the fighting. I can’t imagine how much fun the boys must have had. Every boy plays cops and robbers, or Indians and Gringos, during their childhood and these boys took it one step further: complete with costumes and almost lifelike weaponry. During the entire show they whooped and hollered, ran and jumped, laughed and yelled, and emitted so much energy they could have probably lit up the school, if the school had bulbs to be lit.

After the invigorating performance, a 5^th grade and 6^th grade team of girls faced off in a semi-final basketball competition. The 5^th graders wore white shirts and blue jean shorts and the 6^th graders wore light blue shirts and blue jean shorts, which just seems uncomfortable to play sports in. For the first, oh, 2 minutes of the game things seemed calm, almost “normal”, until Honduran “normal” took over. Can I properly convey the madness that ensued for the remainder of the girl’s basketball game? Probably not, but I will try.

As the girls played their game, a serious one for them, children were running all over the place. They ran through the halls, up the stairs, on the court, outside the school’s gates to buy junk food, then back inside, then across the street to the other school, then back inside. The boys, some still in their costumes, were chasing others with their bows and arrows; children were playing tag; boys were chasing girls; girls were chasing boys (separate from the game of tag); girls were randomly dancing, although I heard no music; people were being chased and poked with sticks and toy guns. I saw kids wrestling; children playing on the same court that the game was being held on; kids were falling down and getting up and running into the basketball players; everyone was chewing or sucking on candy, chips, or soda and I heard the word “Anita!” whiz by me every couple of minutes. The entire time I sat on a bench accompanied by two sweet girls and one shy boy who gave me candy and seemed plenty satisfied sitting still with me, and we watched the chaos before our eyes. To them the chaos was normal and controlled; to me it was exhilarating and hilarious and when I left that afternoon I returned to my house with a sense of satisfaction I’d never felt before. This is life.

I just returned from a charla I was asked to give to a group of 150 elementary children in San Pedro de Copan, a nearby town, and the need to relate my experience is urgent due to the surreal and dream-like quality of it. After months of planning and postponing this presentation today it finally happened. Previously, I had been told by Marina, a nurse at the health center in Corquin, that I would be doing her a great favor by giving a speech about adolescence to her son’s 4^th grade class. When I met her at the health center to ride the 2:00 bus to San Pedro de Copan she greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and then the ominous phrase, “Fijase que…” Now what, I wondered. Apparently the school teachers decided it would be wise, or easier for them, to take advantage of having a visitor give a presentation about adolescence to all the children in the school and not just the one 4^th grade class I was aware of. “Mas o menos, cuantos serán?” She did not know but assured me it couldn’t be too many, seeing as how the afternoon classes were only 4^th – 6^th graders. I sensed otherwise but remained quiet. Once we arrived at the school the kids were in recess and we were given a snack. I repeated my inquiry as to how many students would be attending the charla and was not so surprised to hear “cientocincuenta” (150). This would be my largest audience to date, and a rambunctious one, full of energy after having stuffed their faces full of chips, sodas, and lollipops during recess. Appropriately enough, my presentation for them was about the importance of exercise and nutrition during adolescence.

I was introduced to the children as a psychologist from Texas. Try as I may to explain that studying psychology as an undergraduate does not a psychologist make me is irrelevant and futile. I am constantly called “Psicologa and Doctora” and although I admit that I love the way it sounds I do feel guilty every time because I don’t deserve the title. The presentation went as well as I had expected: at first everyone was quiet, listened intently, and took notes. About fifteen minutes into my speech I started to hear the wave of restlessness coming closer, about to crash. I had an activity planned for closing the session which I knew would have them jumping out of their seats; it was hot potato, and whoever held the hot potato when I finished clapping would have to come up to the front of the room and stick the drawing of a type of food under the appropriate heading – protein, carbohydrate, or vitamins and minerals. Sure enough the children, all 150 of them, went wild. By the end of my presentation I was literally yelling, but not in anger, in order to get my point across: “Y QUÉ TIENE EL POLLO QUE NOS AYUDA A CRECER???” When I had finished the presentation one of the teacher’s thanked me, then had the children give me a round of applause, then had one of the students come up and thank me, then give me another round of applause, and just as I thought I was home free a small group cornered me and asked me for my autograph…my autograph. I have no idea whom they thought I was, or if my silly yet exotic nature attracted them, or if they have that typical misconception that all North Americans are rich and famous, but all I can say for sure is that I spent five straight minutes signing my name on a countless amount of notebook paper. Eventually I had to turn down students because I didn’t want to miss the bus and, most importantly, because I felt so weird, so fake, like I was in a dream. The experience, rather than stroke my ego, has humbled me. What a peculiar world we live in.