(continued from an earlier issue; read part one)

Comrades

Outside the restaurant I said, “We must go quickly to find this man at the University.” We set off at nearly a trot, and after asking directions from a street vendor, we found our way to the steps of that library. As Gustavo had said, there stood a large man with a thick middle. His Yucatecan shirt was tucked in at the waist, making him appear even stouter. Eusebio Diaz appeared to be uncomfortably warm. Small beads of perspiration dotted his forehead as he said, “Yes, I am the one you seek. Let’s get out of this hot sun right now.” 

We sat at a shady place along a low wall. It was clearly siesta time, and many people simply laid down where they were and dozed in the afternoon heat. “Diego De Landa,” I started to say.

“Shh! Hold your voice down,” Eusebio cautioned. “We don’t want our neighbors to know our business.” In a low tone, he said, “I know all about De Landa. He is the personification of Evil on this earth! If you really want to learn about the goings-on in the colonial days, there is a group that meets here  in Merida. We have not forgotten how our people were mistreated. We are few. But we are growing in number. Since you come from Izamal, you will indeed appreciate what we have in store. But I say too much. Join us and learn what every Mayan should know. We are students and professors and seekers of truth. And remember, the motto of this place is “A true spirit of rebellion is one who seeks happiness in this life.”

I think: Happiness always seems to be something that someone else has in his grasp.

We walked down a side street and entered a narrow alley. A rusty iron door with a padlock opened, as if by magic, as we approached. “We’re in luck. My friends are already here,” Eusebio said as he left us. The door swung wide, and we entered.

Five men stood in a circle around a small table. On that table was a very old-looking book. “Maybe, in time, we will introduce ourselves,” one of them said. “But for now just call us as if we were points on a circular clock face, with the “12” being closest to the door. So, I am “3,” next is “5,” then “7,” and “9” and the last, “11.” Yaxche` tightened her hold on my hand.

The man called “3” spoke first: ”We know all about you both. We know you come from Izamal. We need your help. That is why you have gained entrance into this group. You will first need to learn many things. These things are difficult, and you will not like to hear them. But the truth will make you stronger. Do you ever wonder who you are? Dios Mio, it’s 1993, and many of us still don’t have a clue as to what went on.”

Number 9 continued, “We will help you put back together the pieces of our Mayan history. We will let the light of knowledge shine on you.”

And Number 5 added, “Yes, time is passing quickly. Prepare yourselves for a different world.”

What did that mean? Soon we would find out .

On this first meeting, I was sizing up these people. Of course, I was interested in learning all I could about the past. These men seemed to know what I wanted to know. I didn’t understand the need for secrecy, but I would go along with them for at least a while. I could feel Yaxche’s resistance to the whole thing. “When is the next meeting?” I asked.

“It doesn’t work that way. We contact you. It will be the day before we meet. That way, there will be time for you to get to Merida.” Number 11 said. “And, Luca, you must not speak of this place, or of us.”

As Yaxche` and I walked out the door, I noticed some verse had been neatly written above the doorway:

Don’t tell me your missions are beautiful
They’re monuments to slavery and pain.
Butchery done for glory and gain
By Cortez, the Church, and Spain.

The hairs on the back of my neck raised about 2 cm as I read that.

Where do I begin? How can I explain my actions? Where does memory fade and when do we forgive the heinous acts of history? I only know what I know. And I cannot stop the sequence of events that must occur. Itzam`na (“Dew from Heaven”) whispers in my ear, “We are the Maya and this is our land.”

I am Luca. I was born in 1970. I am a poor Mayan child, now just ten years old. We worked hard, my family and me. My father had died when I was five. Still, we got by. My mother raised us up in the church. The Catholic Church. How beautiful that Mission was! We felt special to have such a grand house of worship. It was built in 1561. Beautiful stones, some with strange swirls on them, were used throughout. Seventy- five arcades form the facade of the structure of the Franciscan Convent of San Antonio de Padua. The atrium inside those walls is said to be second in size only to St. Peter’s Square in Rome. Prominently displayed in our convent  hangs a portrait of Friar Diego de Landa, the first Bishop of the Yucatan. For me, that portrait was holy. After all, we were blessed to have our land chosen for this splendid structure. Frey Landa , in our minds, was at the right hand of God. We would always have the strength of the church to see us through misfortune. In more than one way the church was our rock.

The old ones — the viejos —  sat, as was their habit, in the brilliant mid-morning sun. Their backs were against the bright yellow walls of one of the town’s buildings. The convent is painted a particular shade of yellow, and the town’s buildings are painted to match. Izamal (City of Hills in Mayan) has become known as the “Yellow Town.” Bitol, crouching, held a match to his thin hand-rolled cigarette. He squinted at his good friend Kawil. “So this pup, this town dog, comes to sit at our feet today, heh?” He looked through me, and I was trying, unsuccessfully, to make myself less conspicuous. “Go away, town pup. We have no scraps for you.”

Kawil looked me over and says, “Ah, let him stay, Bitol. We can make him fetch us horchatas or aquas frescas later on.”

Bitol, steel in his voice, replied, “You can stay, Little Dog. But remember this: whatever we say here, stays here.” I nod my head solemnly.

They spoke slowly and of many things. Old men are that way. Thoughts and memories come either in a flood or in a trickle. They voice them immediately, lest they be forgotten again. More and more  they live in the past. They are unable to work as they once had. Life has left them with this: a few good friends, a patch of sunny sidewalk, and a measure of experience. Melancholy about some things, reverential about others, the hard knocks of life had made them philosophers.

“Kawil, do you remember your father’s father?” Bitol asked.

“No, I barely remember my father,” Kawil replied.

“Think, Kawil. I remember him, or at least what I heard told of him. He was named  Kan-u-Uayeyab, for the God who protects cities. We called him ‘Kanyeb’.”

“I remember now,” Kawil said. “I think part of me wants to forget the shame he brought upon our family.”

Bitol thought awhile and said, “It’s no shame to love your home. It’s no shame to protect what is yours. Why do you think he did it ?”

I, standing aside these two, could only wonder what had happened; I dared not ask. “It was bad for my family for a long time,” Kawil said. “We were banned from the church and shunned by the people.”

The clip-clop of a horse pulling a calesa echoed softly down the cobblestone street. Itzam`na whispered again, “I told him to do it.”  I wondered if the two old men also heard that whisper, but I said nothing.

“Hey, we’re thirsty. Take these coins and get us horchatas. And bring my change, Perro!” I snapped to attention, a soldier with a mission to perform. “Oh, and get one for yourself, Muchachito.” I took the money and, with a broad smile on my face, I was off at a furious clip.

When I returned I handed over the drinks and the change. I heard the last bit of Kawil’s speech, “And so, he found out what had been lost and forgotten. What a shock!” I wondered what had been found out. Of course, I wanted to ask, but something made me wait. I knew, even at my age, the wisdom of patience. Tomorrow I would return to sit at the knees of the viejos. Later would come the sadness, when I would learn more than I would want to know.

Once there was a bird. She was the finest of birds. She was all of the things that make birds desirable to us mere humans. She was quick-witted. She loved to laugh. She was kind beyond kindness. She was strong, yet delicate. Even though her heart had been wounded, she found a way to rise above. Her beauty, obvious on the outside, had its origin from within. In short, she was a bird among birds. She was one to be recognized on her own merits. She didn’t sing very much, for even though she had a wonderful voice, she had been told that it wasn’t acceptable. 

One day a weary traveler knocked on the door. The lord of the manor, usually gone off on very important matters, was at home. He answered the door to let the stranger enter. “May I have some water?” the stranger asked. “May I rest here for a bit?” The lord granted this simple request. Refreshed and rested, the man asked many questions. They spoke of many things.

After a short  conversation, the lord realized that this visitor was different from any other who had come before. He couldn’t put his finger on the problem. But he knew this man was dangerous. He did not like the visitor. But, trying to be gracious, the lord offered to show the man around. It was a favorite activity of the lord to show off the many treasures which adorned his manor house. “Here is my collection of vehicles. If it has a motor, I have one or two. I only buy the best.” The stranger didn’t say anything. And so it went. From one end of the manor to the other. The richness of the things therein was shown and explained. The stranger had no comment.

Finally, the lord opened the locked door to a room at the back of the manor. The door swung wide as he pushed it in. No lights were on. “It’s better if she’s kept in the dark,” the lord said. But to make his point, he turned on a very bright light. “Now, you’ll see something,” he offered. There in the middle of the room was something covered by a large cloth. The lord yanked it away, and there was the bird. She was in a circular gold cage. “See how fine a cage I gave her?” the lord said. 

The stranger wasn’t listening anymore, for his eyes had locked with the bird’s eyes. The pain of confinement was evident. “Such — a — beauty,” the stranger stammered. He moved forward . He reached for the latch to the cage. 

The lord stopped him, saying, “NO, she may only come out when I say so. I am the lord of the manor.”  

“Sir, I mean you no disrespect, but what do you think would happen if that cage door was opened?” 

“Well, she would get away,” replied the lord.

“Sir, you are wrong. One of three things will happen. If you open that door, she might just sit there. That would be a tragedy for everyone. It would mean you have broken her spirit. She would not be the same wild beautiful thing that she once had been. Her feathers would have no luster.

“The second thing that could happen is that she would fly out as quickly as possible. She would find the open door or window and she would never come back. If that happens, she was never yours to begin with. The finest manor with the finest gold cage could not hold her.

“The third thing that may happen is this: She may fly out of that cage. She may fly around the room, and she may land on your shoulder. You should learn one thing. A heart cannot be sequestered. If she was with me, she would be beside me, for that is the only place love can grow.”  

The stranger left quickly. The lord of the manor was dumbfounded. His hand reached for the latch on the cage. And the bird, that wonderful bird without equal, hopped to the edge of the cage door. She cautiously extended her neck beyond the shiny golden ring of the cage.

Here there are four students and three teachers. Here grunts and screams and moans fill the air. Here critical comments fall on inattentive ears. I have entered the Special Ed room at the junior high.

I work in a corner, replacing the lead teacher’s computer. I have ample opportunity to watch and listen as I wait for the transfer of data to the network drive. Kept apart by at least a few feet, the students seem almost unaware of each other. There is a boy, a Down syndrome boy, who sits on a sofa in another corner of this room. He holds a large ball and growls and howls for no apparent reason. It seems this is his usual demeanor: No one gives him much attention. A tiny girl in a wheelchair never makes a sound. She is in the center of the room. A slight smile shows permanently on her face. A very large boy, tall and stout, has figured out he can reach the controls of the “always on” wall-mounted TV. He speaks and seems to be higher functioning than some of the others. “Popcorn, popcorn,” he says repeatedly. He gets very angry when he doesn’t get the snack he wants. He hits and pinches the teachers, leaving a series of bruises on their arms. This brings on tales of other spats they’ve had with the large boy. “Oh, you gotta watch him — I don’t get close enough to let him pinch me.” He goes to a sink, picks up a glass, and starts to fill the glass with water. He feels the water with the hand that is not holding the glass, and a teacher notes, “See that? He’s checking to see the temperature of that water!” Small victories garner huge praise here. Large Boy says something that I can’t quite hear and goes back to his seat by the door. He’s still not over his disappointment at no snack coming his way. He sulks and waits. “Popcorn,” he says again, just in case anyone has forgotten.

All the while, there is a young man named Cody in a wheelchair just in front of me. He has wonderful auburn hair and a mischievous look in his eye. He makes perfect eye contact with me and smiles broadly. He clutches the remains of a soft rubber ball that has deflated and is now more a purse than a ball. He grunts, “Uhhnn, uhhnn,” as he tries to scoot the locked wheels of the wheelchair along the floor. He has some small success, managing to move about a foot and a half in a couple of minutes. “Uhhnn, uhhnn,” Cody says. He raises the arm that holds the object formerly known as “Ball,” and he tries to throw it to me. It goes about two feet beyond his chair, and a teacher picks it up. “Play with your lock box, play with your lock box, Cody.” Immediately his eyes seize on the contraption in front of him. It’s a homemade-looking wooden box. It has doors and latches on every side. Teacher takes the deflated ball, puts it inside the box, and closes all the doors and hooks the latches tightly. Cody goes to work and happily has that rubber wonder back in his hand in short order, a sense of smugness on his face. He’s played this game before. The teacher’s attention turns elsewhere, and Cody uses this time to scoot the wheelchair in another direction. This time he gets his hand on a yardstick and starts to wave it proudly. Teacher comes back and takes the stick. “Play with your lock box, Cody.” Cody smiles his infectious smile.

The lead teacher uses the telephone, which is near me on the wall. She calls the Office and informs them of the bad conduct of Large Boy. The Office calls the boy’s mom: She must come and get him. “Every day, it seems like, he gets ornery at the same time.” I wonder out loud if it’s because he can read a clock. The teachers have never thought of that possibility and look sort of sheepishly at each other. I probably ought not to voice what I think in here.

The school nurse arrives and, latex gloves in place, prepares to flush Cody’s catheter. I sit and pretend to be working at the computer (it’s still backing up this teacher’s documents). I just have to wait. Can it be over, now? Yes, uh, no. She has apparently saved every Barry Manilow album to her hard drive. GRRRRRR! It takes forever… I think of Lola and Tony and all that mess “at the Copa…Copacabana…”

My job finally comes to an end. As I get ready to leave, Large Boy’s mom arrives. She is told again about his misdeeds. Bruises are again shown to all. She is asked why he is so hungry. “Did he eat breakfast today?”

“No,” she says, “he had a juice box.” 

As I walk to the door, I catch the lead teacher’s eye and say, “You should be all set.” She smiles at me and nods her head. From behind her, I hear the now familiar plaintive reminder for “Popcorn.” Cody and I gaze at each other one last time, and I walk out. The last thing I hear is the soft scraping of wheelchair tires and one last “Unnhh.