In Honduras,
football is sacred. And I’m not referring to that silly, showy sport with all
that padding and goalposts. I’m talking about nothing but a field, a couple
nets, and a ball that you actually kick with your feet. When Honduras plays, the country’s on holiday. Men, women,
and children wear their jerseys and when the games start, the streets empty as
people pile into each other’s houses to watch.
I was
buzzing with excitement too, though I couldn’t define a fault or a penalty if
you asked me. I was like a kid asking how to say “goalie” and “field” and “announcer.”
We sat on little folding chairs in a room with a dozen friends who pressed
against the television, listening with all their might. When the announcer
roared or we gasped in disbelief, sometimes they turned to us and asked, “What
happened?” because none of them could see. We found ourselves guessing because
we couldn’t understand the rapid stream of Spanish words and thus we watched, our parts together making a whole.
My friend
Anna and I first visited the blind school with our class. It’s an organization
dedicated to providing life skills and vocational training for adults, many of
whom become blind later in life and must relearn how to do the things we take
for granted – like ride the bus or dress themselves. They study music, massage,
computers, braille, and carpentry. It’s one of the most highly-regarded schools
in the area and people come from all over for the two-year program. And it’s
about two blocks away from us.
We visited
again, just the two of us, and began to meet the people there. They walk
fearlessly between classroom and courtyard. The veterans hold the arms of newer
students, and the bold grab the hands of the timid. Our new friends introduced
us to newer friends, and we passed hours talking in Spanish that seemed to roll
off our tongues easier there than anywhere else.
We were
completely charmed. I tried not to be offended when a blind man, Nixon,
professed undying love for Anna because “she is the most beautiful.” Another new
friend was eager to perform for us a Spanish pop song that he’d translated into
English. He sang it in an accent we couldn’t understand, but with such abandon
and sincerity that we applauded uproariously at the end.
Our new
friend Leo got out his guitar and played some of his favorite songs for us -- everything from traditional Honduran music to “Yesterday” by The Beatles. Almost everyone at the school is
musical and we passed the guitar around to everyone who heard it and came over.
We watched the blind climb trees to pick fruit, dance salsa together, and smile
with the unbridled joy that comes with not knowing how to guard your facial
expressions.
We left only
when it became dark, and promised to return the next week for the big game,
when true to our word, we leaned forward on the edge of our seats as volunteers
passed us popcorn and coke in little plastic cups. When the ball rolled into
the net, we all shouted together, and I didn’t know how full a room could be with
sound. Our friends jumped up and ran into each other, hugging everyone who
wandered in their path. We screamed and pounded our feet against the floor, for
a moment, feeling like our hearts beat together with the hearts of all
Honduras.
I’m not
going to cheapen our experience with some play on words that has to do with
what our friends see and what they don’t. All I know is that the blind lead the
blind with more care and love than most of us could muster. And as we said
goodbye again, laughing and shaking hands we were counting down in our heads
how many days before we can visit again.
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