Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

200 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Jeremy B. Jones
Something has come alive in the park. Above all of the Saturday
morning clamor, I hear a voice. I am rinsing socks in my pila (a giant
cement sink) when I hear him start talking about a new time. I do
laundry every Saturday morning. I try to remind myself that I do live
here. I have dirty clothes here that I clean only to dirty again. The
park is four blocks away, but I hear him clearly. This is no cheap sound
system, and with it, he is trying to convince me to vote for Miguel.
I have seen Miguel’s face on the TV and on posters for the past
few months. He is an unlikely-looking presidential candidate. He is
big for a Honduran. 6' 2" at least, and a little heavy. He slicks his black
hair straight back and wears his pants a little higher than he should.
When he smiles, which he does often on TV, there is a very noticeable
gap between his front teeth. He has big, clumsy-looking hands. I’ve
been rereading All the King’s Men for the past few weeks, and I think I
have visualized Miguel’s hands for Willie Talos’s.
One of my students, Carlos, talks about Miguel all of the time.
Miguel is a superhero in Carlos’s world. He’s the only one in the
class who feels that way. Carlos’s dad is a congressman—his tenure
(as well as the large house he is building) depends on Miguel’s
future. Everyone else’s parents have informed them that Miguel
isn’t good for the country. He is the mayor of the capital, and he has
an authoritarian reputation. Despite all of his public smiling, he is
implementing a zero-tolerance policy against gangs, and I have even
heard subtle rumors that death squads may not be too far off. He is
very public about his wish to establish a death penalty. Honduran
jails are overflowing.
The man’s voice is heated for only a moment. Music then backs
his voice. It is happy and rhythmic, and he is asking for volunteers
to compete for prizes. I imagine a concert-like audience, volunteers
jumping up and down. He says a comedian will come up soon. Just
under the voice and the noise, I can hear a different style of music. An
evangelical church is singing. A group of voices are strewn together
while a louder but a bit-off-key voice rings through the microphone. I
imagine everyone standing. Hands are raised.
As a teacher I have to be the middle ground. I have to be an
objective voice of reason. Six months ago when I was preparing to move
to Honduras, I never would have expected the need to deflect so many
political arguments in a class of ten-year-olds. I was trying to form a
curriculum based on ecology—the school’s mission—not investigate
effective ways to keep my students from partisan bickering. It’s not