Silvio Sirias

An Open Letter to a Young Nicaraguan

2008-11-23T17:07:00.002-06:00

For Sandra Mariela Peña

Power does not corrupt. Fear corrupts . . . perhaps the fear of a loss of power.
John Steinbeck

Man's nature is not essentially evil. Brute nature has been known to yield to the influence of love. You must never despair of human nature.
Mohandas Gandhi

Faith has to do with things that are not seen and hope with things that are not at hand.
Saint Thomas Aquinas

Good habits formed at youth make all the difference.
Aristotle

Today you’ve made me realize how blessed I am to have several countries I can call my own. Being so fortunate allows me to look away when something painful is occurring in one of my homelands, and find solace in the good things that are taking place in another. Thus, whenever the United States, Nicaragua, or Panama experience painful events that have been inflicted by the worst traits of human nature, I take respite in the positive that’s alive in another of my countries. This blessing certainly helps me fight off despair and often allows me to see light in the darkness.

Of my three homelands, Nicaragua is, by far, the one from which I’ve most often had to avert my eyes. We’ve been unable to learn from the suffering we’ve inflicted upon each other for the sake of gaining and retaining power. In Latin America we’ve become the quintessential example of the danger inherent in surrendering to caudillos: warlords, dictators, and strongmen who possess just enough charisma to make vague promises of future populist reforms in order to gain the sympathy, at least at the outset, of the working class. Such men have been the plague of our nation throughout the last three centuries. And Daniel Ortega, as the world can clearly see today, is no exception.

What makes matters seem grimmer for those, like you, who reside in Nicaragua is that the twenty-first century brand of caudillismo—as practiced by Ortega’s new mentor, Hugo Chávez—has emboldened the Sandinista leader, allowing him to believe that by hiding under the banner of the elected leader of a sovereign developing nation he can govern as he wishes, like a spoiled child with a new toy, without scrutiny or criticism. The manner in which Ortega orchestrated the theft of the recent of the municipal elections—and, to all appearances, gotten away with the dastardly act—can lead those who dream of a better Nicaragua to despair, to have little hope of a just and fair future.

You may believe, at present, that the world will soon forget recent events and allow Daniel Ortega to get away with his electoral crime. You may also believe that he is now free to move toward becoming our nation’s next dictator.

This, I assure you, will not happen. The world has changed, and Ortega and his allies have failed to realize this. They underestimate, to their great detriment, the power that young, intelligent, educated people—just like you—possess. You have the means to tell your stories, to keep the world outside your borders informed of the truth, to not allow us to forget.

During the 2001 Nicaraguan election campaign, Daniel Ortega, who lost that race, came to San Marcos, the town where I was living, to give a speech. What I heard that day, as he spoke in the central park before a largely unresponsive crowd of 500, convinced me that he is a relic of the past. For more than twenty minutes he lectured—and boringly—about the virtues of the World Wide Web. What’s more, he promised that if he won the election every Nicaraguan home would be connected to the internet. (I guess he didn’t realize that people would first have to buy computers, which the Nicaraguan working class certainly can’t afford.) The more Ortega spoke, the more obvious it became that he was largely ignorant about the cyber-world. Cynically, however, he took advantage of his public’s greater ignorance. But what I realized that day was that Daniel was afraid of the ability people have to use these instruments of mass communication, as he continues to be afraid of that power today.

But what Daniel Ortega fears most is to become irrelevant again (and if it were not because Nicaraguans became fed up with the idiocy of the opposition, he would continue to be irrelevant). He misses the limelight of the days of yore, when he was the leader of a highly romanticized revolution that many in the world adored. He even appeared on the Donahue Show (the Oprah Show of its time), and some of us still remember the scandal of the $3,000.00 pair of glasses he wore at the taping while many in Nicaragua went hungry.

His mistake, then, in these municipal elections is that he succumbed to his fear of being forgotten.

Believe me, this gross miscalculation will cost Ortega dearly—the entire world witnessed what he did, and as a result he took a big step toward becoming irrelevant once again. And the days of the caudillos are numbered: people want change, and not posturing—of this they are already growing tired.

Daniel Ortega and his outmoded allies have started their journey toward the sunset. The Sandinista Party is sure to lose the next presidential elections. And you, I promise, will be rid of him for good.

But that’s when your greater challenge begins. The youth of Nicaragua are easy prey for the merchants of despair. The world saw the bat-toting, stone-throwing, mortar-launching gang members who under the banner of the Sandinista Party intimidated those protesting the electoral fraud. This is the battle that you, and others like you, need to win. The education of Nicaragua’s youth is the key to our nation’s future: an education free of political or religious indoctrination; an education that will make us a better people.

The time has come for young Nicaraguans to learn to place the common good far above the cult of personality.

Although this task is monumental, I have faith that you, and those like you who love Nicaragua and are ready to place the fruits of your schooling at its service, will start leading the rest of us there.

The Herald of a Coming Dictatorship: Nicaragua’s Municipal Elections

2008-11-16T13:40:00.002-06:00

Force and fraud are in war the two cardinal virtues.
Thomas Hobbes

Democracy will be overthrown with the tools of democracy.
Adolph Hitler

The spirit of democracy is not a mechanical thing to be adjusted by abolition of forms. It requires change of heart.
Mohandas Gandhi

Barack Obama’s victory gave the world a sterling example of the merits inherent in the democratic process when it approximates perfection. The consensus and community building of the democrat’s campaign were remarkable—a lesson for politicians everywhere. Today few can question that when elections are honest, creative, and open, humankind is better for it. That, in large part, is why much of the world rejoiced upon learning the results of the elections and wished the United States well as it enters an uncharted era with hope and enthusiasm.

Yet only a few days after Obama’s resounding victory, in a dastardly plot Daniel Ortega hatched with the help of his cronies—a stratagem that went largely unnoticed because of the riveting US electoral year—democracy suffered a disheartening defeat in Nicaragua’s municipal elections.

The blatant fraud that took place on Sunday, November 9, started taking shape months ago. The first sign for alarm appeared in May of this year, when the members of the Sandinista-controlled Consejo Supremo Electoral—the institution charged with safeguarding the legitimacy of elections—canceled the participation of the Movimiento Renovador Sandinista and the Partido Conservador, claiming that they had failed to meet the deadline to submit their plans for internal restructuring (a claim both parties still maintain was false). With this move, Daniel Ortega and his associates eliminated the two political parties most likely to draw away the votes of potential Sandinista sympathizers.

Then, when José Miguel Insulza, Secretary General of the Organization of American States, publicly expressed his concern over the measure, Ortega countered in a speech replete with passionate, nationalistic rhetoric that outside interference in Nicaraguan affairs would not be tolerated. He went on to suggest that international electoral monitoring organizations, such as the well-respected Carter Center (which has supervised every Nicaraguan election since 1990, including the one Daniel Ortega won two years ago), would not be allowed to observe the balloting. And only a week before votes were scheduled to be cast, Rosa Marina Zelaya, former president of Nicaragua’s Electoral Council, expressed that it was “lamentable and distressing” that the current Council had failed to accredit reputable international observers to verify the results.

In light of these events, then, the chaos and violence that followed the announcement of the landslide Sandinista victories in the municipal elections, including the much disputed mayoral race in Managua, is not surprising. And at present, Ortega’s “turbas”—gangs of unschooled adolescents armed with baseball bats, stones, and under the supervision of Sandinista elders—are roaming the streets of many Nicaraguan communities intimidating the opposition. These swarming harbingers of fear have been Daniel Ortega’s most effective response to dissension since the early 1980s—the height of the Sandinista Revolution.

Within the Sandinista party—of which Daniel and his wife, Rosario Murillo, are the undisputed rulers—democracy long ago ceased to exist. One only needs to heed the words of internationally respected Nicaraguan writers—such as Sergio Ramírez, Gioconda Belli, and Ernesto Cardenal, among others—all former Sandinista stalwarts, who for years have been trying to alert the world that under Daniel Ortega’s reign democracy in Nicaragua is only a few heartbeats away from its demise.

But as the world celebrated democracy at its best following Barack Obama’s election, the abuses taking place in Nicaragua have gone largely unnoticed. With the exception of a few European nations that are withholding financial aid to Nicaragua, Daniel Ortega's maneuvers to remain in power far longer than the current constitution allows have gone uncontested in the international arena.

In the early 1980’s, when the Sandinista Revolution enjoyed great support throughout the world, the former Comandante of the Revolution said in an interview: “We (Nicaraguans) grew up in a situation where we didn't know the meaning of freedom or justice, and therefore we didn't know a thing about democracy.” At the time his pronouncement seemed harmless—the quaint thought of a young, perhaps even innocent, leader of an impoverished and long-suffering nation that was in the process of reinventing itself. Today, however, Ortega fully understands how the democratic process works, and aware that his approval rating among his people is abysmal, he has opted to take a page out of the Third Reich’s playbook and use the tools of democracy to bring about its downfall in Nicaragua.

Balbina Herrera’s Head-Start

2008-11-10T09:58:00.003-06:00

The first lesson is this: take it from me, every vote counts.
Al Gore

Youth is easily deceived because it is quick to hope.
Aristotle

It’s difficult to overlook the power this continent’s youth has exercised in recent presidential elections. Much is being said and written about the advantage Barack Obama had over John McCain with regard to his remarkable ability to capture the youth vote—an advantage that paid off handsomely in a landslide victory.

Courting young voters also paid off two years ago for Nicaragua’s Daniel Ortega. His campaign was designed to appeal to a significantly large portion of the electorate—Nicaragua’s voting age is sixteen—who were infants, or yet to be born, when Violeta Chamorro’s 1990 victory brought the Sandinista Revolution to an end.

For Nicaragua’s youth, who had scant memories of what life was like during that era, the stories their elders told them about Ortega’s previous reign seemed more akin to fables about the Big Bad Wolf; and the harsh national economic realities, coupled with the blatant corruption of Arnoldo Aleman’s government, made Daniel’s return actually seem desirable. Thus, thanks to young voters, the leader of the Sandinista Party, in a three-way race, obtained 37% of the required 35% of the ballots to barely win the election. (Ironically, many of the youth who voted the former Comandante back into power have now become his most vocal critics.)

In the Republic of Panama, Balbina Herrera, presidential candidate for the ruling party, the Partido Revolucionario Democratico (PRD), is directing the heart of her campaign to the nation’s younger voters. Throughout Panama City, a series of large ads and billboards supporting Herrera’s candidacy have suddenly sprung up, and seemingly everywhere. What’s interesting to note is that the ads are not the traditional candidate mug-shot. Instead, attractive children, teenagers, and young adults smile blissfully—often in a models’ poses—while the legends of the announcements proclaim that their lives will have far greater educational and employment opportunities with Balbina as president. In one ad, the candidate stands up front and center while at her side and behind her are a couple of dozen beaming faces, all of voting age and not one over twenty-five.

Thirty percent of Panama’s electorate is under the age of twenty-five. What’s more, the ads promising better education include children of elementary school age, a clear indication that Balbina is also reaching out to young parents. In sum, then, she’s aggressively going after the thirty-five and under vote, which constitutes close to fifty percent of Panama’s voters.

Balbina’s “De Corazón”—From the Heart—campaign motif is counting on the certainty that the youth are quick to hope, and hope is what she offers in the highly attractive ads: ads that contain no traces of her once-close association with General Manuel Antonio Noriega, Panama’s former dictator. The campaign’s publicity looks single-mindedly toward the future. Still, subtle hints of Latin America’s historical paternalism are in evidence: ask what the government will do for you, and you shall receive. But in offering to help every Panamanian achieve his or her dreams, Balbina makes the campaign not about herself, but about the desire for a better life of the common voters.

Ricardo Martinelli, of Cambio Democratico, and Juan Carlos Varela, of the Panameñista Party—the two opposition candidates of significance—are doggedly sticking to the traditional mug-shot ads. Ricardo Martinelli’s face, in particular, is on large billboards near every Super 99—the large chain of supermarkets he owns—and many Panamanians are beginning to express their annoyance of having to stare at the unimaginative billboard-sized photograph of his face for another five months.

Clearly, Martinelli’s and Varela’s campaigns are lagging far behind Balbina Herrera’s—both in imagination and in effectively targeting the crucial segment of the youth vote. And as often happens in elections, unless they come up with equally effective ads, and within the next few weeks, the upcoming Panamanian presidential election will essentially be over as they will not be able to catch up to Balbina Herrera’s formidable head-start.

A Purist of His Trade: Anastacio Moreno, Cutarra-Maker

2008-11-04T10:20:00.005-06:00

You cannot put the same shoe on every foot.
Publilius Syrus

I own a pair of cutarras. They are the traditional campesino footwear of Panama: open-toed with an intricate polished weave on top, an engraved polished sheet of leather as platform, and rubber soles. One needs to be careful when purchasing these since they’re handmade—trying on both the left and right cutarras until a pair fits perfectly. I find cutarras wonderfully comfortable. In fact, they’re what I wear at home most of the time.

Recently, however, I discovered that what most Panamanians refer to as cutarras are an aberration—that, in reality, the more popular version, the kind I own, are a grave violation of tradition.

“Genuine cutarras don’t have rubber soles. The bottom should a single, unpolished plank of leather with nothing underneath. The things people today refer to as cutarras are an insult to the craft,” says Anastacio Moreno, professional cutarra-maker.

When it comes to his trade, Anastacio (who spells his first name with a “c”) is a purist. And although he’s in his early fifties, he’s been making cutarras for well over forty years.

“I started making them when I was a little boy, living in the countryside near the town of Guararé, in the province of Los Santos. In those days, every campesino knew how to make cutarras. They’re what everyone wore back then. Today, though, making genuine cutarras is a dying art.”

Every single cutarra Anastacio Moreno manufactures is custom-made—woven especially for each customer. Señor Moreno practices his trade in an alleyway off Sal-Si-Puedes: the quintessentially third-world street off Avenida Central that’s cluttered with zinc-covered booths that sell a wide and odd assortment of things, including folkloric items.

For eight dollars, Anastacio will make a pair of cutarras, cut and woven to the measurements of each foot. First, the craftsman asks the client to sit on a stool and place a foot on a wood box, similar to that of a shoe-shiner’s. The craftsman then sits on the opposite end of the box and places a leather sheet under the foot. He traces a broad outline with a pen. Afterward, he marks several specific points, including one between the first two toes, and proceeds to cut the leather according to the outline. Once this is done, Señor Moreno punctures the sheet at the marks. He then takes two long, thin strips of leather, soaks them in water, squeezes out the excess water, and begins to tie the sheet onto the customer’s foot. Prior to tying the final knot, he asks if the fit is comfortable and, if necessary, makes the adjustments before completing the weave. He repeats the process on the second foot. After that, the cutarras are ready—fitting every customer to perfection. The entire process takes close to twenty minutes and is fascinating to watch.

Panamanian folkloric dancers keep Anastacio Moreno in business. “The true cutarras are the only kind that makes the slapping sound dancers require,” Señor Moreno says with obvious pride.

November, a month replete with Panamanian national holidays, is the peak season of his business year. And five years ago, in 2003, when Panama celebrated the centennial of its independence from Colombia, Anastacio barely kept up with the demand. “At one point, people were lined-up half a block down the alley to get a pair of cutarras. Suddenly cutarras became a symbol of national pride; it was incredible. If business was always that good I’d be a wealthy man. But as it is, I make enough to get by.”

My wife is one of the handful of foreigners who have come to him to have cutarras made. She’s bought two pairs so far, and she swears they're extremely comfortable.

“Would you like a pair?” Señor Moreno asks me. Feeling terribly guilty, I confess that I own a pair of the aberrations, the kind with rubber soles. The cutarra-maker stares at me without saying a word; his disapproving glare bears holes into my conscience. “But the ones you have don’t make the sound cutarras should make.” When I timidly admit that, contrary to my wife, I like to walk without making sounds, Anastacio Moreno shakes his head mournfully and, after a long pause, says: “As you wish; but I want you to know that those things you own aren’t cutarras. They’re nothing more than sandals.”

As we prepare to leave, my wife asks him to autograph the cutarras he made. Surprised by the unusual request, Anastacio smiles shyly, the hardcore purist in him tamed for the moment, and writes his signature with obvious pride on the right cutarra.

“You know,” he says as my wife gives him the eight dollars, “I may be the last legitimate cutarra-maker in Panama City. I’ve trained several young men to make them, but they’ve all ended up making those damn sandals because there’s more money in it.” He sighs, looks longingly at his workbench, and says in parting, “People don’t seem to care much about tradition any more.”

Sometimes it’s About Who Inspires Faith

2008-10-19T15:32:00.004-06:00

Faith is a passionate intuition.
William Wordsworth

Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.
Martin Luther King, Jr.

In 1960, the Democratic National Convention was held in the Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena. My family lived within a few blocks of this site. I was six years old at the time and on the final day of the Convention I remember walking there with my parents, who wanted to witness history up close. Although we weren’t allowed into the Arena, there was an electrifying atmosphere outside—music, shouted slogans, balloons, and a shared feeling that we were at a crossroads in American history.

What I remember best about that day are two things: that my jacket ended up covered with buttons of every single candidate seeking the Democratic Party candidacy, and the loud cheer that greeted the news that John F. Kennedy had won his party’s nomination.

My father—a veteran of the Korean War and naturalized US citizen—was inspired by Kennedy. He volunteered to help the campaign, and with me in tow he knocked on dozens of doors to distribute leaflets, buttons, and bumper-stickers supporting JFK. When Kennedy was elected, it was a joyful moment in my home as my parents celebrated the victory as theirs. They had faith that a new era of inclusion was being ushered in, and the sadness of seeing those hopes so tragically truncated haunts me to this day.

Years later, my father, who returned to live in Nicaragua and experienced the Sandinista Revolution—which he absolutely abhorred—found inspiration in Ronald Reagan and became an ardent Republican. With time, thanks to him, I learned to listen respectfully while not uttering a word in order to keep the family peace. It is a practice I honor to this day: I keep my heartfelt political opinions to myself in the presence of those whose viewpoints differ from mine—all for the sake of preserving amiable relationships.

Also, I’ve learned that teachers wield considerable influence over the minds of their students—even of college age. Thus, I remain as impartial as I possibly can around youth. I’ve learned to steer discussions that have the potential of becoming political toward posing the questions that both sides of the spectrum are raising. I’ve become quite a capable facilitator in helping students arrive to their own conclusions according to their consciences and beliefs. It is not a teacher’s place, I firmly believe, to shape the political views of students; rather, it is our duty to help them to learn to determine for themselves the stand they wish to take on issues or which candidates they will support.

In addition, because my wife and I have voluntarily chosen exile from the United States, the land of our birth, to reside in Latin America, I feel I surrendered the privilege to assert my viewpoint regarding US politics and elections. I prefer to let those who live in the trenches advocate their positions with vigor; and when I do chime in, I do so timidly, limiting my comments to some aspect of a discussion I feel people have overlooked.

Moreover, a bit wiser with age, I’ve learned that spiritual matters are far more transcendent and timeless than politics. In my youth I defended my political views with passion, not caring who I offended, only to discover, once the dust had settled, that I had been on the wrong side of the issue. Therefore, today I only come forth in matters in which I'm absolutely sure that I’m in command of the facts and where my voice may help prevent a mistake or correct an injustice.

Because of these strongly held principles, I’ve never used my writer’s pulpit to endorse a US presidential candidate. However, today I will break from tradition to state my belief that Barack Obama represents the direction in which I believe the United States needs to go. I have faith in his ability to lead.

What made me step away from a lifelong practice of withholding my views was Gen. Colin Powell’s endorsement of the Democratic Party candidate. Already, conservatives are attacking Powell for his support of Obama. But Powell’s words—and the courage it took to pronounce them—have inspired me to join in and say that I, too, believe that the United States has reached a critical crossroads that begs for a historical choice.

In particular, these words, uttered by Gen. Powell during his appearance on today’s “Meet the Press,” moved me to cast aside my silence and take this stand:

And I come to the conclusion that because of his ability to inspire, because of the inclusive nature of his campaign, because he is reaching out all across America, because of who he is and his rhetorical abilities — and you have to take that into account — as well as his substance — he has both style and substance, he has met the standard of being a successful president, being an exceptional president.

I agree.

Barack Obama reminds me of a time when hope filled the hearts of most Americans. We need hope again, perhaps more than ever. And I am filled with faith. That's because the electrifying appeal of his campaign takes me back to that day, long-ago, when I was six years old, standing in front of the Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena, and a great nation was poised to make another historical choice.

Standing Next to Paul Newman

2008-10-11T12:32:00.003-06:00

The light that you think you emanate is not necessarily the light that other people see. You think of yourself as shy, retiring . . . and some people will see you in an entirely different way.
Paul Newman

When I was a boy, Paul Newman was the actor most women swooned over. I know this because my mother was one of them. She once adopted a cat—the only cat my family ever owned—because the animal’s grey-blue eyes reminded her of the actor’s. What’s more, she instantly came up with a name for her favorite feline: Paul.

In my own way, I inherited her admiration for Newman. Growing up, I never missed one of his films. And my respect for him grew when, during the early 1980s, as the Nuclear Freeze Movement’s most visible spokesperson, he demolished Charlton Heston in a nationally-televised debate about the arms race.

A few years later, when I first heard about Newman’s Own and learned that all the profits of that enterprise went to charity, I became fiercely loyal to the product. (It certainly helped that the olive oil salad dressing was absolutely delicious.)

And today, a week after Paul Newman’s death, I find myself recalling the morning I stood next to him, and for quite a while, before becoming aware of his identity. The encounter took place in the fall of 1973, when I was nineteen and in my second year at Los Angeles City College. One morning, with a long gap between classes, two fellow students, both women, suggested a quick trip to Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard—then the largest record store in Los Angeles—to check out the latest releases.

When we arrived, business was slow; there were only a handful of customers. The sales-clerks, two young men, were playing Cat Stevens’s and Van Morrison’s most recent recordings. I couldn’t have asked for better music. And after flipping through albums for about an hour, it was time to head back to for our next class. Being the only one who decided to buy something, I joined the short line at the cash register while my friends continued searching through the bins.

I was the fourth customer. I stood there, enjoying the music and in no hurry to get back to my accounting class. The customer in front of me was in his forties, with slightly graying hair. He wore a dull-gray overall and a soiled pair of work-boots. I took him for a refrigerator repairman who, also on a break, had decided to buy himself a few records. The only thing that seemed a unusual was that he had placed a stack of close to 40 albums on the counter, apparently with the intention of buying every single one and, although we were indoors, he wore over-sized sunglasses.

When his turn came to pay, the sales-clerk rang up the purchase, which, considering the amount of albums, took a while. He informed the customer of the amount—close to two hundred dollars (music was more affordable then)—and the man handed him a credit card. The young man looked at the card; he then glanced at the man. He looked at the card again and, doing a formidable job of keeping his cool (but I could tell that he had become excited), he said, very courteously, “I’m sorry, Mr. Newman, but with purchases over $100 I have to call the credit card company for authorization.” (In this era, prior to computerization, credit card limits were verified manually.)

And then, that distinctive, smoky voice I’d been hearing all of my life inside the sacred dim halls of movie theaters, answered, “That’s fine. Go ahead.”

As the sales-clerk placed the card back on the counter, I read the customer’s name:

Paul Newman.

Discreetly, for we were standing shoulder to shoulder facing the sales-clerk, I leaned forward to catch a better glimpse of the man’s face. All it took was a fraction of a second to confirm that the refrigerator repairman standing next to me all that time had indeed been Paul Newman.

If only my mother were here, I thought.

I did my best to remain calm, to enjoy the experience of standing next to Paul.

But I was unable to stay cool for more than thirty seconds. I needed to share this with someone. What’s more, I needed witnesses so that later I could be sure that it hadn’t all been a dream.

I left the line and hurried to the opposite side of the store, closer to the exit, where my classmates were looking at records. When I reached them, as serenely as I could, I said, “Now, don’t be obvious. Whatever you do, don’t overreact. You see the fellow paying at the register? That’s Paul Newman.”

Both girls at once looked toward the register and, at that moment, the Hollywood star glanced our way. My friends reacted as any red-blooded American woman of their age would:

They squealed . . . and rather loudly.

The handful of customers at Tower Records turned to see what had happened. They soon concluded it was nothing more than a couple of immature college students excited over the latest Doobie Brothers' recording.

But the squeals also drew Paul Newman’s attention. In spite of the sunglasses, we could tell that he was staring at us.

We stared back.

He continued to stare at us.

We continued to stare at him.

He smiled.

Now all three of us squealed.

And then he gave us that patented, beautiful, million-dollar Paul Newman grin.

We had to hold on to each other to keep from falling in a dead faint.

While Mr. Newman waited for the credit card company to clear his purchase, he toyed with us the way a cat plays with its prey. He alternately stared and smiled at us. We, in turn, alternated between swoons, jumping in place while emitting little, squirrel-like squeals, and silly giggling. (I also believe we were drooling, but I can’t be sure because it’s a memory that, apparently, I’ve been successful in repressing.)

Throughout all this, with the exception of the one sales-clerk, the rest of the people in Tower Records were oblivious that Paul Newman stood among them.

The purchase now approved, Mr. Newman grabbed the large bag containing the stack of records and headed for the exit. As he passed near us he gave us one more gorgeous grin and left the store. Although none of us fell to the floor, it took a while before our legs were sturdy enough to rush to the exit. His passion for cars well-known, we had to see what he was driving.

We opened the door, stepped out, and stood there, our mouths gaping as we stared at the stunning red Porsche passing before us. And then the most astonishing thing happened: Paul Newman rolled down the window, stuck his arm out above the roof, and waved farewell.

The Exiling of Respectability: The Case of Granada, Nicaragua

2008-10-04T14:02:00.005-06:00

I have to live for others and not for myself; that’s middle-class morality.
George Bernard Shaw

The Granada in which I spent my adolescence was a cultured, genteel community. One of Nicaragua’s largest cities—as well of one of the oldest on the American continent, founded in 1524—Granada was a place where courtesy, honor, respectability, and education were held in high esteem. In the mid-1960s, when my family moved there from Los Angeles, California—after I had just turned eleven—I felt as if I had stepped back a couple of centuries to a place and time where civility, good manners, being cultivated, and preserving one’s good name mattered immensely.

Of course, the majority of Nicaraguans lacked access to an education of quality, to the schooling vital for improving one’s condition in life. As a result, moving up the ladder of respectability—and, if a person was fortunate, moving up the economic scales as well—was something only the most diligent, persistent, and resourceful among the poor could achieve. Nevertheless, the majority of Granadinos and Granadinas, regardless of social class, recognized and admired the men and women who lived their lives by strict codes of public conduct while at the same time pursuing lofty educational and personal goals.

Oddly, or at least it seems so in my memory, the folks that inhabited this refined civic echelon came almost exclusively from the middle-class. The wealthy led lives separate from their fellow Granadinos and Granadinas. The elite seldom ventured out of their majestic colonial homes; few outside this closed society knew what the city’s aristocracy did behind locked doors. As a result of this isolation, with the upper-class’s lives being utterly private, it was up to the middle-class to carry the banner of sophistication and good breeding out in public, to be the standard bearers of refinement. Middle-class morality, that life lived for others which George Bernard Shaw refers to—and I interpret his quote at face-value, not as irony—was in fact the glue that held together centuries-worth of traditions regarding an individual’s responsibility to set a good example for others.

I was fortunate enough to grow up in a middle-class Granada home. My mother’s extended family was part of a social class that for generations sought to keep their offspring well-educated and cultured—without the burden of being materialistic, which being middle-class implies today. My family’s emphasis on being respectable made it possible for me to have several role models to choose from within my own family: men and women who devoted themselves to becoming the best persons they could possibly be. And it was to them that, like an impressionable adolescent looking into a crystal ball, I turned to for some insight with regard to who I could become.

I’ll share one example (but only one, for the list is rather long): that of my great-aunt Mercedes Jacinta López, better known within the family as “Chintita.” In an era that predated the feminist movement, she shattered gender barriers, walls that had been keeping women from positions of responsibility for centuries. In the early 1940s, Chintita became the first woman to work for a bank in Granada. Today, throughout the world, a woman bank-teller is a common sight, but her appointment provoked a temporary uproar in patriarchal Granadino society. On her first day on the job, several men withdrew their savings, arguing that a woman wouldn’t know how to handle their money. But within a matter of days, Chintita’s efficiency, honesty, humor, and gift for making people feel at ease soon put an end to their apprehensions.

Years later, urged on by friends, Chintita began to dabble in politics. Eventually, she became the first woman vice-mayor of Granada. Still, in spite of these considerable honors, Chintita, a well-read person who knew and could recite most of Rubén Darío’s poems by heart, wore these distinctions with humility—always ready to smile and be amiable, even to the humblest person in Granada. When Chintita died, four years ago, thousands attended her funeral. By living her life according to the middle-class standards set generations before her, she was able to touch many, many lives.

Last June, during my most recent visit to Granada, my sister and I, in comparing notes, kept repeating that something was missing, that Granada had changed, and substantially, in the years since we grew up there. We both agreed that the city had lost the gentility of old. In the streets, backpacking tourists, aggressive peddlers, and local vagrants have replaced the refined adults of our youth who always seemed to have time for us without expecting anything in return. And during the evenings the doors of middle-class homes, that in our adolescence were always open to welcome every visitor, were now gated and locked; the lives of the inhabitants in the heart of Granada are turned inward, and missing are the social and cultural interactions of old.

I admit that the colonial buildings of the city look better than when my sister and I lived there. The restoration was funded by foreigners who recognized the beauty of Granada and quickly moved in after the fall of the Sandinista government, in the beginning of the 1990s, to capitalize on the site’s potential for tourism. Their efforts and investment has made the Granada beautiful to behold. But these entrepreneurs, although ingenious and more well-intentioned than not, have been unable to replace the centuries-worth of respectability that the former middle-class represented.

What, then, happened to Granada’s middle-class?

A Revolution.

Ironically, as well as tragically, although during the 1970s popular rage in Nicaragua was directed toward the Somoza family and their closest allies, the change in government ended up mostly displacing the middle-class. Disenfranchised from the businesses that made them able to earn a decent, if not modest, living—especially compared to the US middle-class—the heart of Granada’s gentility was forced into exile. Paradoxically, the city’s aristocracy—the wealthy, that is—was better equipped to weather the political storm and hold onto, or successfully reclaim, their properties. And Granada’s elite continues living behind closed doors today, seemingly oblivious to the plight of the less fortunate.

Throughout our recent visit, my sister and I felt displaced, as if we never lived in this majestic city. And now that I look back, I believe it’s because the type of persons we once looked up to as adolescents, the type of persons we could emulate, no longer have a public function. The standards bearers of social respectability—that middle-class from which came the mentors of our youth—have been driven underground, labeled during the Revolution as the petite bourgeoisie, enemies of the common man and woman.

Rekindling a Flame: On a Marvelous Endorsement

2008-09-27T10:58:00.003-06:00

At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.
Albert Schweitzer

Joshua Berman is an accomplished travel writer. He is co-author of Moon Handbooks Nicaragua, unquestionably the best guidebook for this country. What first drew my attention to Joshua’s work was that, a little over a year ago, he wrote in his blog that he had just purchased Bernardo and the Virgin and was looking forward to reading it. Grateful for the plug, I sent Joshua an email thanking him.

In his response, he stated:

Dear Silvio,

Wow, ¡qué milagro! I’m in the middle of reading Bernardo and the Virgin (I hadn’t yet read it when I wrote the post about Nica reading lists on my blog), and I was planning on contacting you later this week. Incredible. Bernardo and the Virgin is not only one of the best books I’ve read on Nicaragua, but one of the best historical fictions I’ve ever read. So, felicidades for that. I plan on including your novel on the Suggested Readings list of the next edition of my guidebook on Nicaragua.

I’m looking forward to communicating more with you,

Josué

Joshua and I have since corresponded, but only briefly. Today, however, my spirit soared after reading the grand endorsement Joshua gives Bernardo and the Virgin in the most recent edition (Third edition, September 1, 2008, Avalon Travel Publishing) of Moon Handbooks Nicaragua. The following quote can be found on page 459, in the section titled Further Study. Bernardo is the first book mentioned.

Suggested Reading

A prodigious amount of literature emerged from the Sandinista years, when Nicaragua was the setting of the hemisphere’s most celebrated—and criticized—socialist experiment of the century. You’ll find more titles on Nicaragua in the used-book section than you will on the new releases shelf. Following is an extremely eclectic (and incomplete) list of your options.

Fiction

Sirias, Silvio. Bernardo and the Virgin. Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 2005. Bernardo stands head and shoulders above other books about Nicaragua for sheer originality, real-life texture, and ingenious use of voices and characters. This historical novel tells the true story of the Virgin Mary’s appearances to a campesino in Cuapa, while portraying a thick slice of Nicaragua’s past and present. If you only have time to read one book before your trip, this may be the one.

I would never dare to wish for a better review than that, especially from someone who has read extensively about Nicaragua.

Gracias, Joshué. Your message came at a time when I needed that extra boost.

To purchase your copy of Moon Handbooks Nicaragua, click here.

Or, for a copy of Bernardo and the Virgin, go here.

An Unforeseen Earthly Connection: On Santo Tomás, Chontales

2008-09-20T13:50:00.007-06:00

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
Robert Frost

I heard the story of my family name from my paternal grandfather, José Vicente Sirias. According to his tale, in the latter half of the eighteenth century two brothers left their homeland in the Middle East and eventually settled in Nicaragua. My guess today—after researching historical migrations to Central America—is that they were part of a large wave of Catholics who came to this region from what today constitute Lebanon, Syria, Israel, and Palestine to escape economic hardship, as well as discrimination against non-Muslims, during the last throes of the Ottoman Empire .

The brothers settled in the town of Acoyapa, located in the cattle-raising province of Chontales. Their presence intrigued the residents of this region, but the local citizenry never learned to pronounce the immigrants’ surname. Instead, folks referred to the brothers as “Los Sirias”—an abbreviated form of "The Syrians"—and the brothers adopted the nickname. Sadly, both the original family name and their true land of origin have been lost to time.

This tale, as fragile as it is, is the only source I have that explains our uncommon last name.

Today, for the branch of the Sirias family I belong to, the locus of our heritage has shifted ten miles south of Acoyapa, to the town of Santo Tomás. This community—of 16,000 inhabitants and located 118 miles south of Managua—is the last outpost of civilization. (Many Nicaraguans would disagree with the term “civilization” being used for any Chontales community.) The heart of Santo Tomás lays on the eastern side of the road to Rama, a village where, after a long and exhausting boat ride, one can reach Nicaragua’s isolated Caribbean coast.

Santo Tomás is where east meets west. It is the wild frontier where the Afro-Antillean, the indigenous, the European and, in the case of the Siriases, the Middle Eastern heritages merge.

After two failed marriages—in which time my grandfather produced seven children, including my father, from his first marriage—he returned to his province of birth after a long absence and settled in Santo Tomás. There, he married again—at last successfully—and had eight more children.

Although my father and the Santo Tomás branch of the Siriases had different mothers and they didn’t meet until they were adults, they got along splendidly, caring for one another as if they had been together all of their lives. I’ve come to feel close to the Sirias-Vargas clan as well. (My father’s limb of the family tree is that of the Sirias-Burgos.) When I visit my uncles, aunts, and cousins in Santo Tomás I feel rooted. Admittedly, I find it strange to feel intimately connected to a community where I’ve never lived. But I believe that’s because when I’m in Santo Tomás I hear wondrous stories that make me feel close to my father and his three brothers—all of them now departed.

This is why Santo Tomás has become such an important part in the construction of my identity. That is why the community is mentioned prominently in Bernardo and the Virgin. It’s also why this Chontales town is the site of a key encounter in which my aunts and uncles briefly become fictional characters in Meet Me Under the Ceiba.

Santo Tomás is where I feel close to my paternal heritage. What’s more, I know that I shall always feel this way because, through a series of unpredictable events that now appear to have been steered by the more blessed forces of fate—too complex to discuss in a blog entry and, I confess, a little too personal—my father is buried there, next to his father.

For anyone interested in learning more about Santo Tomás, click here

And to learn more about Acoyapa, including the mention of several Siriases who played important roles in the town’s history, click here

The Magic of Antigua, Guatemala

2008-09-10T16:47:00.004-06:00

I think that the ideal space must contain elements of magic, serenity, sorcery and mystery.
Luis Barragan

I first visited Antigua, Guatemala when I was fifteen years old. I had come to this country as part of a leadership conference for Central American Catholic youth. That experience marked me for life, in the best of ways. On our last day in Guatemala we were taken to Antigua, the spectacularly well-preserved original site of the nation’s capital. That brief visit became engraved in my memory as a magical incident, a day where ancient colonial walls spoke to me of the clashes and confluences of cultures, religions, beliefs, and people that took place here centuries ago.

I’ve just returned from my third visit to Antigua. This time, I accompanied a group of high school students from Balboa Academy to a leadership conference organized by the Association of American Schools of Central America. The experience was, once again, magical. Seeing the city through their eyes allowed me to relive a part of my life when the future was a vast ocean of possibilities, as limitless as the dreams of youth.

But what most marked me on this occasion was a trip to a state-operated home for elderly people who are destitute. I visited the institution to help supervise a group of students who went there as part of a community service project. I admit that when I first learned that I had been assigned to the old folks’ home I was quite concerned about what I would say or do with the residents. After all, I was a perfect stranger walking into their dwelling, uninvited, with the intent of becoming their friend.

My apprehension vanished, however, the moment I entered the home. While leading the students back into the dining room—our arms cradling small gifts and supplies—I said “Buenos días” to the residents seated along the long corridors of the elegant colonial home. They rewarded my greeting with warm, welcoming smiles.

That day I heard a dozen unforgettable stories: the ninety-two year old man who was grateful for his good health and for being able to have a roof over his head; the former jeweler, embittered after a car accident left him without the use of his legs and because his family, who lived only an hour away, had not visited him in over a year; the poet who had never written down a single verse yet could recite from memory all his compositions; and others.

My experience in soliciting people’s stories—part of my trade as a writer who bases his novels on actual events—came in handy. I could have spent several weeks at the home and still not heard every fascinating tale. I only wish I’d had more time to spend with these elders who so generously offered me intimate glimpses into their lives.

At the end of our visit, as we prepared to leave, my favorite resident, a small, mute woman, still not terribly aged, who communicated in sign language few could understand, held onto me, her arms around my waist, in gratitude for the time I spent trying to communicate with her. (In spite of the trouble I had understanding her, we laughed a lot together.) She didn’t want me to leave.

And as the young students filed out of the home, smiling in approval as my new friend clung to me, I knew then that I was living another moment that would become part of my reservoir of magical memories of Antigua, Guatemala.

The Vision that Lived On

2008-08-27T06:03:00.003-06:00

Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.
Carl Jung

Revolution, n. In politics, an abrupt change in the form of misgovernment.
Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary

Last June, while in Nicaragua, I visited the town of Cuapa. It was my first time back in seven years. This small Chontales community, nestled on the foothills in the Sierra de Amerrisque, serves as the setting of my first novel, Bernardo and the Virgin.

Back in 1980, only a few months after the Sandinista rebels overthrew the fifty year old Somoza dynasty and assumed power, Cuapa, then a village unknown to the vast majority of Nicaraguans, witnessed a series of events that altered the lives and the identities of everyone that lived there: the Virgin Mary appeared on four occasions to a forty-nine year old tailor named Bernardo Martínez.

The apparitions became the axis, the central point of contention, in the grave conflict of the 1980s between the Catholic Church and the Sandinista government. The traditional wing of the Church used Bernardo’s visions to help rally the faithful against the growing power of liberation theologians and the “Popular Church,” both strongly aligned with the Revolution. In turn, the Sandinista government did everything within its power to discredit the seer.

In writing Bernardo and the Virgin, I was not interested in proselytizing; that is, it was never my intention to convince readers the Mary had descended from the heavens to deliver messages for the faithful through Bernardo. I left that decision up to each reader. Instead, I wanted to explore two things: one, the history of Nicaragua in the latter half of the twentieth century and, two, how Bernardo Martínez unwittingly placed himself at the core of a bitter confrontation. The tailor became the rope, if you will, in a ferocious tug of war between the traditional wing of the Church and the adherents of the Revolution.

At present, however, in Cuapa, the only vestige of that tense era is the glass case—kept in the old church, where the initial signs of the apparitions took place—containing the broken fragments of the first image of the Virgin of Cuapa: the statue was the victim of a hail of bullets fired by Sandinista sympathizers in the late 1980s.

The peace that reigns in this rural town today reflects the current truce between the Sandinista party and the Church. But as I traveled through the country, keeping an attentive eye open, I saw that devotion to the Virgin of Cuapa has spread considerably among Nicaraguans since the last I lived here, six years ago. Images based on the description Bernardo gave of the Virgin now adorn the entrances of many small towns, and not only in the department of Chontales. What’s more, a statue of the Virgin of Cuapa is in every Cathedral of the nation—a clear sign that the Nicaraguan Catholic Church has fully embraced Bernardo Martínez’s story.

In the town of Cuapa, wherever I went, I saw evidence that Bernardo’s mystical visions of twenty-eight years ago are now an integral part of the townsfolk’s identity. What’s more, Mary’s visit to Cuapa—in which she urged Nicaraguans to work for peace rather than wage war—is rapidly becoming an integral part of the identity of Nicaraguan Catholics.

And this, I believe, indicates that spiritual visions, those revelations that makes us look deep into our souls, endure far longer than the political ideals and dreams of any revolution, regardless of how well intentioned these may at one time have been.

The Publication of Meet Me Under the Ceiba: A Done Deal

2008-08-20T06:18:00.002-06:00

When one is writing a novel in the first person, one must be that person.
Daphne du Maurier

The building of the architecture of a novel—the craft of it—is something I never tire of.
John Irving

The contract is in the mail.

Well . . . sort of.

Over a week ago I received from Arte Público Press, University of Houston, the paperwork necessary to begin the process of publishing Meet Me Under the Ceiba. What has delayed the contract’s prompt return is the author’s questionnaire—six pages of questions I need to answer in order to help Arte Público Press publicize the book. After my experience with the publication of Bernardo and the Virgin, I’ve come to understand the importance of promoting one’s work, and this time around I will pay much closer attention to the business aspect of the writer’s life.

But the great news is that Meet Me Under the Ceiba, after experiencing an odyssey worthy of a book itself, will at last make it into print. (Someday the manuscript’s journey will become the subject of a blog entry.)

Arte Público Press has yet to set a release date, but as soon as they do I will announce it here.

In the meantime, here’s the tentative teaser (this is the feature usually found in the back cover of a novel):

One Christmas evening, Adela Rugama, a woman known for her “scandalous lifestyle,” is murdered. The circumstances surrounding her death alters the lives of the residents of the Nicaraguan town of La Curva and the surrounding communities.

Three and a half years later, a US college professor arrives in Nicaragua, the homeland of his parents, on a summer lecture assignment. After learning about Adela’s death, whom he had met four years earlier, he promises Mariela, the surviving sister, to unravel the truth behind the woman’s final moments.

Fulfilling the pledge leads the narrator through a labyrinthine entanglement of love, lust, deceit, jealousy, prejudice, greed, mystical visions, and passions gone awry while offering readers an enthralling look into everyday Nicaraguan life.

Inspired by a true incident widely reported in the Nicaraguan press, Meet Me Under the Ceiba will remind readers of Gabriel García Márquez’s Chronicle of a Death Foretold. The tale of Adela Rugama’s murder and its aftermath makes for a mysterious, haunting, and harrowing novel that’s destined to remain etched in the minds of readers.

* Winner of the 2006-2007 Chicano/Latino Literary Prize—University of California, Irvine.

When the People Stop Listening: On Daniel Ortega's Predicament

2008-08-13T06:20:00.004-06:00

Every hero becomes a bore at last.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Bore, n.: A person who talks when you wish him to listen.
Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

After only a couple of days back in Nicaragua—following a four year absence—the quality of life seemed far better than friends and relatives had led me to believe. My first impression was that Nicaragua had prospered under Daniel Ortega’s presidency. Commerce, by all appearances, was vibrant. The dynamism on the streets made me think that Ortega’s year and a half of rule was benefiting Nicaragua’s economy, the contrary of everything I had been told.

But one just needs to talk to people, ask a few questions, watch the news for a couple of hours, and read the newspapers to realize that things are not as rosy as they seem.

On my first day back—in the company of my mother and my sister, Sandy—we drove by the roundabout (“rotonda”) near Metrocentro, in the heart of Managua. On an empty lot on the northwestern corner opposite the mall, protesters had erected temporary shelters. They were camped there to support Dora María Téllez’s hunger strike. A former Sandinista leader—Dora María was the second in command during the rebel’s daring and dramatic seizure of Nicaragua’s congress, in August, 1978—she had been at that spot, without food, for ten days to protest the Electoral Council’s decision to ban the political party she heads, the Movimiento de Renovación Sandinista, from participating in this year’s municipal elections. (The Electoral Council, not surprisingly, is controlled by subscribers to “El Pacto”—that is, the alliance between Daniel Ortega and Arnoldo Alemán and their followers that allows the former opponents to share and yield considerable political power. This partnership also helps them avoid prosecution and extended prison sentences for past crimes.)

“Daniel Ortega is closing the doors to democracy and trying to establish another dictatorship,” Dora María Téllez said to the news media.

Ambassadors from several countries agree with Téllez’s assessment, and the countries they represent are considering withholding aid to Nicaragua.

“In my view,” a former student who now works for a well known international organization said to me, “Ortega’s presidency has reached its most critical stage.”

* * * *

My first weekend in Nicaragua, the government television station broadcast the inauguration ceremony of an electrical plant that Hugo Chávez donated. The centerpiece of the event was a speech by Daniel Ortega. His talk, sated with anti-imperialist rhetoric, condemned the United States and the practices of neo-liberalism. These, he argued, are the culprits of all of the world’s evils.

His discourse harked back to the 80’s, the height of the Revolución Sandinista, which many Nicaraguans, of all social classes, call the nation’s darkest decade.

“Daniel is stuck in the past,” is a phrase I heard often during my visit, always uttered as a lament.

* * * *

Everywhere one travels in Nicaragua one encounters enormous billboards with Daniel Ortega in various poses, proclaiming: “Long live the poor of the world,” “The people’s presidency,” and other, similar slogans. What these have in common is that, once dissected, they’re hollow and devoid of substance.

“What ‘people’s presidency’?” said a former high school classmate of mine who now owns a small business. “You think Daniel cares what anyone other than Chayo has to say?” (“Chayo” is Rosario Murillo, Ortega’s wife who, everyone seems to agree, is the power behind the throne.)

A sign of the growing disillusionment among Nicaraguans is that the billboards are being vandalized. In several announcements, during my travels, Daniel’s face was splattered with paint.

While visiting friends in Granada, a neighbor excitedly came into the house to announce that the billboard of Daniel that greets people at the city entrance had been defaced the night before.

“That’s a good sign,” said the grandmother of the family. “It shows that no one is afraid of the Sandinistas anymore. They can no longer lock up opponents or spy on them around the clock like they did in the 80s in the name of national security. Daniel can’t control us this time around.”

The recent and massive protests in Managua demanding Ortega’s resignation support the elderly woman’s assertion that the citizenry is unafraid. Also, current polls show that close to 80% of Nicaraguans disapprove of his leadership. What’s more, many who voted for him are openly stating that they made a mistake.

But what most impressed me during my visit is that the political passions that historically have spilled over into violence remain at low ebb. I believe this is because the overwhelming majority of Nicaraguans are turning a deaf ear to Ortega’s confrontational words.

“We don’t listen to him anymore,” a raspados vendor told me in the city of Masaya. “He and Chayo are crazy. What we’re doing instead is working hard to keep the country afloat in a world economy that each day seems to be getting worse. Who has time to pay attention to the foolish things coming out of Ortega’s mouth? We’re concentrating on truly important things: like working and helping others who want to work.”

Back in 2001, I was present at a sparsely attended speech Ortega gave in the plaza of the town of San Marcos during the electoral campaign that he lost to Enrique Bolaños. After listening to Ortega’s long and uninspiring talk, I surmised that the former Comandante de la Revolución had run out of things to say. And this time around, in a clear sign that Daniel Ortega’s presidency is quickly losing respect among Nicaraguans, people have stopped listening to his threadbare and antiquated view of Nicaragua’s place in today’s world.

Balboa Academy: Year Two

2008-08-06T09:23:00.006-06:00

The world of knowledge takes a crazy turn when teachers themselves are taught to learn.
Bertolt Brecht

A year ago, as I was getting ready for my second year at Vasco Núñez de Balboa Academy, I wrote the piece Balboa Academy: Year One. Revisiting this entry took me back to the initial shock of returning to the high school classroom after teaching college for many years.

The transition was difficult, but I overcame the hurdle with the help of a mantra my dear friend, Bill Madonna, gave me—a mantra I repeated for weeks during my morning shower: “Today, I’m going to make a difference.” Before long, as I mentioned in last year’s entry, my outlook changed and I began to enjoy the high school experience thoroughly.

Last year—my second year at Balboa Academy—although I still encountered the usual challenges every high school teacher faces, I had a terrific time. (And repeating the mantra is no longer necessary: it has become a mindset.) First of all, much of the credit for the fun I’m having goes to Jean Lamb, School Director, who understood that I needed time to write. She allowed me to teach part-time and this has made an enormous difference. Thanks to Jean’s flexibility and giving character, my teaching load went down from five to three classes: two ninth-grade Spanish courses for native speakers and the Introduction to College Writing.

The ninth grade Spanish classes had many superb moments last year. At times, the class discussions reached levels that matched any college course I taught in the past. As part of the curriculum, we read the fiction of many noted writers. Among them: Ricardo Palma, Emilia Pardo Bazán, Horacio Quiroga, Jorge Luis Borges, Julio Cortázar, Juan Rulfo, Ana María Matute, Gabriel García Márquez, Elena Poniatowska, Mario Vargas Llosa, and Isabel Allende.

Also, in the Spanish course, we studied several gifted poets, including: Garcilaso de la Vega, Santa Teresa de Jesús, San Juan de la Cruz, Luis de Góngora, Fray Luis de León, Francisco de Quevedo, Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Rubén Darío, José Martí, Juan Ramón Jiménez, Vicente Huidobro, Alfonsina Storni, Federico García Lorca, Octavio Paz, and Pablo Neruda.

Although the works we read were complex, the students plunged into them with enthusiasm. In fact, now that I have learned quite a few lessons about the importance of pacing in the high school classroom, I’m looking forward to teaching this class again. I expect this upcoming year’s ninth-grade Spanish course to be much improved.

At mid-year, I wrote The Pleasure of Guiding New Writers. The entry explores my experience teaching the Introduction to College Writing course. That class, taught under the auspices of the University of San Diego, went well. More importantly, to date, every student who’s gone on to attend college in the United States has reported that their university of choice has accepted the course’s three credits. There are several things I will do differently this year. Again, the changes will be mainly in terms of pacing. But teaching this course in a high school setting for the first time (I taught freshman English in college on several occasions) was, for me, a great learning experience. With the help of the book Creating Writers: Through 6-Trait Writing Assessment and Instruction, I implemented and conducted energizing workshops that taught and encouraged students to become effective critics and editors of essays.

At year’s end, I was pleased with the substantial improvement the students made as writers. Moreover, I’m proud of Words of a Dragon—the student-published anthology that contains their best writings. This year, the quality of my teaching in Introduction to College Writing is bound to improve thanks to the lessons I learned last year.

When June rolled around, and everyone was saying farewell as they left for summer vacation, I was surprised that I didn’t feel the least bit tired. The 2007-2008 academic year was, for me, a decidedly enriching and rewarding experience.

As a result, with one day left before the students report back, I’m eager to begin year three.

Preview of a Postscript

2008-07-30T08:39:00.003-06:00

The Saint of Santa Fe is finished. I will review the manuscript one last time before sending it off to publishers. But, in essence, the novel is done.

In this posting I'll share the work's "Postscript." Keep in mind that a postscript's location is after the conclusion of the novel, after the story has been told. The purpose of a postscript is to help readers better understand the boundaries between fact and fiction. I offer it today in the hope of enticing readers to learn more about the extraordinary man Father Héctor Gallego was.

Postscript

Shorty after moving to Panamá, in 2002, I read Father Héctor Gallego’s story in a local newspaper. The questions surrounding the priest’s disappearance and death intrigued me. At the time I was working on Meet Me Under the Ceiba, so I filed away Father Gallego as a possible subject for a future novel.

Immediately upon completing Ceiba, I started to look into Héctor Gallego’s life in earnest. The more I learned, the more his story captivated me. At times, I believed I could distinctly feel the priest’s spirit urging me to tell his tale. As my investigations progressed, I became convinced that what he did in life was far more noteworthy than the mystery that shrouds his tragic death.

The final stage of my research consisted of an extended stay in the town of Santa Fe, in the mountains of northern Veraguas. The first person I interviewed was Jacinto Peña, a close friend of Father Gallego and the lone witness to his abduction. Toward the end of our conversation—which took place late in the evening—I mentioned, casually, that I would love to speak to Héctor Gallego’s family. At the same time I lamented that they lived in far away Colombia—for a writer on a limited budget, that is.

“You don’t have to go there,” Jacinto answered. “His sister, Edilma, lives in Panamá. In fact, at this moment she’s in Santa Fe.”

I’ve been the beneficiary of several small miracles, such as this one, while writing The Saint of Santa Fe and Bernardo and the Virgin, my first novel.

Early the next morning, I visited the offices of the Fundación Héctor Gallego, where Jacinto had assured me that I would find Edilma, the youngest of the priest’s ten siblings. I spent several days in conversation with her, in addition to attending the commemoration ceremonies for the Thirty-Fourth Anniversary of her brother’s disappearance. Edilma Gallego’s contribution to this novel is immeasurable.

When I came down from the mountains I was ready to tell Héctor Gallego’s story.

Four publications were particularly helpful in writing this novel: María López Vigil’s Héctor Gallego está vivo; the June 1972 edition of Diálogo Social: Revista Mensual, published on the occasion of the first anniversary of his disappearance; R.M. Koster and Guillermo Sánchez Borbón’s In the Time of the Tyrants—Panama: 1968-1990; and Graham Greene’s Getting to Know the General. Greene’s chronicle of his close friendship with Omar Torrijos portrays the general in a highly favorable light. His work helped me capture the complex nature of this man of light and shadow.

According to Panamá’s Comisión de la Verdad, the military was responsible for 189 disappearances or deaths during their twenty-two year stewardship of the country. Most of these tragedies occurred during the early years of General Omar Torrijos’s reign. Father Héctor Gallego is, by far, the most famous victim of Panamá’s military dictatorships.

At present, there is mounting popular pressure on Panamá’s Catholic Church to start the process of Héctor Gallego’s beatification—the first step on the path to sainthood. One miracle is being attributed to Héctor’s intervention.

To this day, the details of his death and the disposal of his body are cloaked in a deliberate cloud of secrecy.

The Republic of Panamá no longer has an army.

A Revision Update, and Revisiting Obsessions of Old XIV

2008-07-23T15:28:00.004-06:00

A Revision Update:

I honestly thought I'd be finished with The Saint of Santa Fe by now. But as the start of the next school year quickly approaches (I have to report back to Balboa Academy in a week), I've been obliged to spend time preparing for the students' arrival.

The good news is, though, that by this weekend the novel will be done, it's only a matter of a few more hours of work.

The Saint of Santa Fe will be locked away safely--to distance myself a little before I read it one last and then send it off in search of a publisher. In the meantime, I will address the changes Arte Público Press wants me to make in the manuscript of Meet Me Under the Ceiba. In essence, the publisher's concern is that the narrative employs too many Spanish phrases, and they want these translated into English. This is not a problem, and I trust the judgment of the folks at Arte Público Press. After all, they are the largest publisher of Latino and Latina authors in the US. They know the market better than anyone.

The year 2009 will be exciting for me as there is the strong possibility that two of my novels will make it into print. Also, the revision updates and the recycling of previously published articles will come to an end as I'll be able to turn my attention, once again, to producing new pieces for this weblog.

An Invitation to Revisit an Obsession of Old:

On March 25, 2006, over one million Latinos and Latinas marched through the streets of major US cities in protest of an unjust immigration bill that was coming before Congress. The world took notice. In Latin America, the event made the top headlines.

The success of the march brought back sentiments that had been with me since childhood. I wrote this piece and after it appeared in The Panama News, I received a couple of angry letters stating that the Latino presence in the United States is harming the cohesiveness of "American Values." Sometimes, people miss the point a writer has to make. Latinos have been active contributors to these "values," but their efforts have gone unrecognized.

I invite you to read, or reread, "The Cloak Removed."

A Revision Update, and Revisiting Obsessions of Old XIII

2008-07-17T09:44:00.005-06:00

A Revision Update:

So close I can taste it.

The Saint of Santa Fe is basically done. Three final stages remain, however. The first consists of my wife, Erinn, reading the manuscript. She's an outstanding editor, no joke. Then, based on her feedback I will go over the novel one last time to address her comments as well as to check for inconsistencies. (As a novel evolves, certain things change from the way they were in the beginning. This may be the name of a character, the mood of a setting, the nature of a situation, and so forth. In the final stage I check all the "little" things so the picture remains tight.)

The last stage is the most fun because, as the writer, I'm one step from exiting a very long tunnel (this work took three years to complete—including a twenty month hiatus where I had to work to earn a living). In this stage, I prepare the title page, the table of contents, the dedication page (always a moving moment), the afterword, and the acknowledgments.

Once this is done, the manuscript goes in search of a publisher, and I move on to my next project.

An Invitation to Revisit an Obsession of Old:

My wife and I are fans of Bombay Cinema, more commonly known as "Bollywood." Our friends think we're strange for loving films that come out of India, but the truth is many of them are quite good and they invite us to see the world in a different way. Because of Bollywood movies, one of our dreams is to someday visit India for an extended period of time. Until then, however, watching Bombay Cinema will have to suffice.

(When I return to writing new articles for this weblog, I hope to produce a piece that explains how far my knowledge and taste for Bollywood movies has advanced.)

When this article appeared in The Panama News, I was gratified to receive emails from the United States, Canada, and India from Hindustanis welcoming my wife and me to the joys of Bollywood.

I invite you to read, or reread A Glimpse into India; or, My Love Affair with Bollywood.

An update: At the time I wrote this piece there were no Indian restaurants in Panama. We now are blessed with two.

A Revision Update, and Revisiting Obsessions of Old XII

2008-07-09T17:22:00.002-06:00

A Revision Update:

At last, the end is in sight. Forty-eight chapters of The Saint of Santa Fe are pretty much ready, leaving only Chapter 49 and the Epilogue. Locking myself away in Moravia, Costa Rica has yielded the desired results. Erinn and I will be traveling back to Panama this Saturday, which would still give me a couple of days to finish revising the novel. Thus, more than likely the next the posting will contain the news that The Saint of Santa Fe is done.

From that point I'll be moving on to making the changes Arte Publico Press has requested for publication of Meet Me Under the Ceiba.

These are busy, but very exciting times with the convergence of two works reaching culminating stages on their paths toward publication.

An Invitation to Revisit an Obsession of Old:

Racism often arises in public discourse that a society may consider harmless. Such an instance arose in Panamanian sports, and I felt the need to respond.

I invite you to read, or reread, Acknowledging Prejudice.

A Revision Update, and Revisiting Obsessions of Old XI

2008-07-02T17:34:00.003-06:00

A Revision Update:

I'm making good progress on The Saint of Santa Fe, here in Moravia, Costa Rica. Chapters 38-40 are practically done, and I'm up to Chapter 43 in my revisions. I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel quite yet, but it's exciting to almost be there.

It has been nice to be working in Moravia, formerly a small town that now has become a suburb of San Jose. In the early mornings, after my wife, Erinn, leaves for her masters classes, I walk around the town for an hour, enjoying the sights and sounds, which are quite different from Panama. What's more, the community is in a mountain valley that is quite cool. In addition, our room at the inn is an ideal place for working on writing, with a nice view out of our window. Thus, I couldn't ask for a better spot in which to try to finish the novel.

An Invitation to Revisit an Obsession of Old:

Perhaps my most memorable experience shortly after moving to Panama occurred before a baseball game at the Rod Carew Stadium. There, I happened to bump into, literally, Panama's most famous athlete, known throughout the world for beating his opponents to a pulp.

Read all about it in "A Close Call."

A Revision Update, and Revisiting Obsessions of Old X

2008-06-25T06:54:00.003-06:00

A Revision Update:

I'm back from Nicaragua, where I had a marvelous time visiting haunts of old. In my first days back home in Panamá I was able to place Chapter 34 of The Saint of Santa Fe in the can. This was a particularly difficult chapter to tame, but I'm pleased with the results. I am now working on Chapters 35-38. Chapter 35 needs a little more work, but Chapters 36 and 37 are virtually ready to go.

Sunday, my wife and I will be heading for Costa Rica, where we will spend two weeks. Because my wife's trip is related to her work, I will be spending my days in the inn where we're staying, revising away. My hope is to at last finish The Saint of Santa Fe while there.

On the publication front: I received an email yesterday from Nicolás Kanellos, Director of Arte Público Press. He read the manuscript of Meet Me Under the Ceiba, says it's a "wonderful read," and is eager to publish the novel. There are, however, a few changes he has requested. If we agree on the changes (which I don't think will pose a major problem), expect to see Meet Me Under the Ceiba in print within the next year.

Revisiting Obsessions of Old:

Ana Castillo is one of the first Latina writers to open my eyes to the possibility of telling my own stories in English. I have loved her work for many years now, and I've had the honor of being introduced by her at my first reading of Bernardo and the Virgin, at the Book Expo in Chicago a few years back.

A couple of years later, she asked me to translate a few poems into Spanish from her collection, Watercolor Women, Opaque Men.

I invite you to read about this honor she bestowed on me in "Translating Ana Castillo."

A Brief Report from Nicaragua, and Revisiting Obsessions of Old IX

2008-06-18T09:04:00.002-06:00

A Report from Nicaragua

I'm in Nicaragua with my mother and Sandy, the youngest of my two sisters, reliving the past. My mother and sister live in Fresno, California and because of the difficultly of travel more than likely this will be my mother's last visit to her homeland. It's been a pleasant experience revisiting with fond nostalgia places and people that impacted our lives.

I've also been taking plenty of notes of personal impressions gathered during this visit that will certainly become future postings.

An Invitation to Revisit an Obsession of Old

The question of cultural preservation and the evolution of culture intrigues me. At what point does cultural preservation become stagnation? And what facets of life should a society fight to preserve? These questions, I believe, are at the heart of the conflict between the Western world and Islam.

But, locally (in Panamá, that is), the question arose on a far less troublesome arena after the tragic deaths of several notable Panamanian musicians. Listening to their funeral over the radio so impressed me that I was moved to write an article that received a warm response from several readers, including one from D. A. Sonneborn, Ph.D., the Assistant Director of the Smithsonian Folkways Recordings division.

I invite you to read, or reread, "Honoring the Lost Songs."

A Revision Update, and Revisiting Obsessions of Old VIII

2008-06-11T08:56:00.005-06:00

A Revision Update:

There is progress to report this week as I am now working on Chapters 34-38. What’s more, Chapters 34-36 are almost ready. There will be, however, a delay: I’m leaving for Nicaragua this Friday for a family reunion, of sorts. During this time I'll have to set rewriting aside. The good news is that after this trip, revising will be my full-time job as the school year ends tomorrow. And I expect to have The Saint of Santa Fe polished by August 1, the day I return to work

What also is a cause for celebration is that I expect to return with a notebook full of observations from my trip to Nicaragua. Many of these experiences are bound to become future blog entries.

An Invitation to Revisit a Posting:

Two days ago, June 9, marked the thirty-seventh anniversary of Father Héctor Gallego’s disappearance. While conducting research for The Saint of Santa Fe, which is based on Gallego’s life, I noticed that he was constantly compared to the revolutionary Colombian priest Camilo Torres—as both praise and criticism. I mentioned to Isabel Montoya—a student who lived with my wife and me for a year and became a daughter to us—my desire to learn more about this Latin American icon of the 60s. A couple of weeks after my comment, Isabel’s family, who live in Colombia, sent me a wonderful gift: Camilo: El cura guerrillero by Walter J. Broderick. After reading this fascinating account of Camilo Torres’s life, I was moved to write the following posting, which is one of my personal favorites: “Three Paths to Martyrdom: Ambrose Bierce, Camilo Torres, and Héctor Gallego.”

A Revision Update, and Revisiting Obsessions of Old VII

2008-06-04T06:00:00.003-06:00

A Revision Update:

There’s not much new to report from the rewriting front, I’m afraid. We are in the last week of classes at Balboa Academy and then it’s off to finals. The tasks involved in this yearly ritual, the most hectic part of the school year, have consumed me. Nevertheless, I did manage to whip Chapter 34 into pretty good shape. When I wrote this chapter of The Saint of Santa Fe—in which Héctor Gallego is lost for four days in the jungles of Veraguas (a true incident)—I knew that revising it would be a bear because of my experimentation with time and point of view. Fortunately, after much work the chapter is turning out nicely. (Beware of the prowling jaguar.)

An Invitation to Revisit a Posting:

I’ve had the pleasure of several long chats with Cristina García. She is one of my favorite authors. I urge everyone to read Dreaming in Cuban, a fascinating, gentle, and superbly surreal look into how La Revolución Cubana has driven a wedge between Cuban families, dividing them physically, spiritually, and ideologically. But as boring as my description may sound, Cristina’s poetic writing beautifully brings to life the plight of Cubans who are trying to become whole.

I invite you to read my thoughts about Cristina’s work in "Cuban Identity as Dreamworld: On Reading Cristina García."

An Unexpected Honor

2008-05-28T06:08:00.004-06:00

A week ago today, I received the following message announcing that an article I wrote, and that was published in The Panama News, has been nominated for an international award:

Mr. Silvio Sirias
The Panama News
Panama

Dear journalist friend,

You wrote an article entitled “Me, the right winger,” which appeared in the January 20-February 2, 2008 issue of The Panama News.

The topic of your journalistic work meets precisely the themes defended by the Lorenzo Natali Prize! This prize, launched by the European Commission rewards journalists committed to Human Rights, Democracy and Development.

Initially set for the written and online press, the Lorenzo Natali Prize opens up this year to journalists from radio and TV. The prize applies to journalists working for local media in one of the five following regions: Africa, Asia and the Pacific, Europe, Latin America and the Caribbean and the Arab World and the Middle East.

We invite you to apply for the 2008 Natali Prize. The deadline for the reception of the journalistic work is June 30th 2008.

The 15 winners of the Lorenzo Natali Prize will be guests of honour of the European Union in November of 2008. On the occasion of a special evening which will take place during the 2008 European development days, Louis Michel will hand out the trophies and awards to the winners.

Overall 50,000 euros of prize money will awarded to the best pieces of work.

Best regards,

John Wallford, Prize Coordinator

I’m thrilled to be nominated for a prize in journalism. In truth, I’ve tried to model quite a few of my blog entries on the journalistic writings of Mario Vargas Llosa, one of my literary heroes. To learn more about the Lorenzo Natali Prize, click here.

The nominated article forms part of a thread that began with the piece “A Time to Step Aside.” I invite everyone to read, or reread, “Me, the Right Winger” as it appeared in The Panama News.

A Revision Update, and Revisiting Obsessions of Old VI

2008-05-21T06:01:00.002-06:00

A Revision Update:

Thirty-three chapters (out of fifty) of The Saint of Santa Fe are now ready. Rewriting Chapter 34, I was forced to delete a scene that just wasn’t working—even though it was based on a supposedly true story. While researching the life of Father Héctor Gallego, I learned that in one of his voyages through the jungles of Veraguas, between the villages of Río Luis and Calovébora, he successfully performed an exorcism on a dying man possessed by an evil spirit. Although the man passed away soon afterward, the family was grateful that the priest had been able to eradicate whatever had taken hold of him. Upon rereading the episode, although my informants had assured me that the incident had indeed taken place, the truth read like a poorly conceived scene from a bad movie. I deemed those pages impossible to save, and I did not waste time deleting them. Sometimes, the truth can read like feebly written fiction, and in those cases, an author has no choice but to let go and hit the erase button.

An Invitation to Revisit a Posting:

I have a special relationship with Miguel de Cervantes and his novel Don Quijote de la Mancha. In fact, I am rereading the book these days; it’s like revisiting a dear friend of old.

The year 2005 marked the 400th anniversary of the publication of the first part of Don Quijote. The surge of interest in Cervantes’s work throughout the Spanish-speaking world was truly remarkable. Yet, from my observation deck, the tributes seemed slightly askew, and I suspect the experience I chose to write about repeated itself elsewhere, not only in Panama.

I invite you to read, or reread, my thoughts regarding these occurrences in "Don Quijote de la Mancha: Four Hundred Years Later."