The Day the First Ladies Came to Town

Yesterday, the volunteers of Centro Arte para la Paz received incredible news - that all the presidents of Central America were currently in San Salvador, and their wives were to come and visit Suchitoto. Which, of course, meant a visit to the Center. The volunteers barely had time to express our excitement when the beginnings of the entourage started to trickle in - policemen with bomb sniffing dogs. Of course, this visit following true Salvadoran style, the time of the arrival of the first ladies was still TBD – totally beyond discernment.

         Finally, after a number of security members had been waiting about for an hour and a half, the first ladies arrived – along with more secret service members, a number of SUVs, and a handful of soldiers, completely decked out with several pistols to complement their rather large automatic weapons. Sister Peggy, after greeting the first ladies at the entrance, turned to the soldiers. “I think you can wait out here.” The soldiers, wisely realizing that Sister Peg could wither them with a look before they shot off the first round of their M-16s, stayed outside of the peace center.

         I was lucky enough to be working the front desk of the museum in the afternoon. As a result, I was able to greet all the first ladies when they came in and when they left. Which means that the first ladies of Central America kissed my cheek not once, but twice.

You may take a moment to marvel.

As the ladies toured the Center, the soldiers remained outside and children continued to come in and out. One of the children happened to be a rather squirrely boy named Freddy, who also happens to be in the harp class. This combination proved to be one that made the soldados outside increasingly nervous; as a result of his involvement in the harp class, Freddy had a large, oddly shaped black bag; his squirrely nature found him coming in and out of the Center the first ladies had recently entered, taking his harp on and off. I could see the soldiers becoming more and more uncomfortable, as the spread-out, relaxed line soon became a clump. Of course, I would understand their anxiety much more if the oddly shaped bag had not also had the large rainbow colored word “ARPA” (harp in Spanish) written across it, accompanied by the sounds of the rest of the harp class coming from the corridor. All this happened while Freddy remained blissfully unaware of all the tension he was creating, finally leaving about forty minutes after he meant to go home.

         After an hour or so tour, the first ladies took their leave. Waving good-bye, taking pictures, they soon loaded into their motorcade and roared away. After five minutes, all that remained of the entourage was the mildly tramped down grass in the front.

And that was the day the first ladies came to town.

The Man Who Whistles

Reading the title in the context of the experiences of a woman in Central America, one might expect this to be an entry full of negativity, lamenting over the objectification of women.

This is not that entry.

Rather, this is an entry about the man who sweeps the plaza and streets every single morning in the town of Suchitoto; or, as I like to call him, "the man who whistles." I love to begin my morning listening to the tuneful songs he whistles, walking through the plaza on my way to Centro Arte para la Paz. Each song is accompanied by the rhythmic swish of the tied reeds against the cobblestones; he always sweeps in time to his song. Most days, the plaza already has people out and about by the time I cross it, so the beautiful tune is sometimes lost in the sounds of the odd car driving by, the shouted salutations, and the general hubbub of everyday life. But sometimes, it is only me and the man who whistles, his beautiful song filling the silent air, floating across the way to descend upon the ears of a grateful listener. With the morning sun at my back, I often stop for a few moments to enjoy the joy this man unconsciously gives me.

Once, a few months ago during the weekly spirituality night the volunteers have, we were asked to fill a page with what we believe. Amidst a flurry of words, I wrote one sentence in the upper right hand corner that comes back to me whenever I pass through the plaza - "I believe that mundane, everyday actions can create great moments of grace." Though I very much doubt he is aware of it, this man creates a moment of grace for me every single morning - a moment of quiet filled with the strains of his song that accompanies his work.

So here is in thanksgiving for all those mundane moments that turn to moments of grace; especially for my man who sweeps Suchitoto's streets, the man who whistles.