My father's eulogy

Eulogy for Alfredo Del Transito Monge Menjivar
February, 2012

My father’s life was a Latin American magical realism novel.  I think Isabelle Allende must have heard his story in 1982 and based her bestseller “House of Spirits” on his life.  We should ask for royalties.  His story goes a little something like this:

Alfredo Del Transito Monge Menjivar was born in the remote jungle village of Los Monges near the town of Suchitoto, El Salvador.  I’ve been told that there were about 150 houses that bordered the mighty Rio Lempa before the river was dammed to make Lago Suchitlan. The houses were made of bahareque (clay, sand and wood), many with thatched roofs in the same tradition of the Maya-Lencas of the region 3000 years before.  Mama Lina had fourteen children; he was one of the eight that survived.  Life was not easy. He was born into stifling poverty--one that few escaped--but there was also a joy of life and an indigenous connection to the natural world that few experience.  Although he was materially poor, as a child he experienced the richness of community, family, and love that only happens when your life truly depends on cooperating with others.  Later in life he said he kept flashing back his early childhood and finally realized that he had experienced true happiness and presence when he was wandering around the jungles and swimming in the river.

My Uncle Hernan tells a story of my dad’s early escapes from death.  He said, “Your dad was maybe 18 months and he was crawling around on the floor of the house.  We had all gone outside for some reason.  Papa Chema (my grandfather) allowed a thirty foot Boa Constrictor to live in the rafters of the house.  He liked it since it took care of the pesky rodents.  It had been a fairly dry season and maybe there weren’t too many rodents around so I think the snake had gotten hungry enough to come down from the rafters.  It was slowly coming down over your dad.  Its mouth was unhinging and it was within a foot of your dad when Papa Chema walked into the house.  Papa Chema always carried a machete and gun.  He fired at the snake’s head, killing it instantly and then hacked at it with the machete to be sure.   The giant snake crashed down around Alfredo but he was unharmed.  Your dad has always been lucky.“

Most of the boys and girls in his village ended their education at 5th grade.  At that point they usually had to join the family in subsistence farming or start a business.  Alfredo was one of the few lucky ones to go beyond 5th grade.  My grandfather’s boss had wanted his own sickly son to continue school and he needed someone to help his son carry his books and protect him from bullies.  He paid for my dad’s school so that my dad could watch over his son.  My dad left Mama Lina’s house at age 10 and only returned for a few weeks in the summers.  Due to his hard work and hunger for learning he received a scholarship to one of the best high schools in El Salvador--Santa Cecilia.  He attended school with the uber-rich and was often used to motivate the privileged boys by taunts from the priest: “Look at this stupid Indio getting higher scores than you. You should be ashamed of yourselves!”  This obviously did not make it easy on my dad, but he it also motivated him to prove that a peasant boy could become great.   He went on to get a double Phd at the University, one in Law and the other in Economics.

After graduating, he married my mom.  Sylvia was a pretty girl from the other high class side of town.  Papa Pepe, my grandfather, was not thrilled about this revolutionary law student from poor means courting his daughter.   Nevertheless, they married, bought a house, had three kids and a convertible Mustang.  He was well-respected and his economic situation had improved greatly.   Even though he’d moved up in status, he always focused on helping poor people.   The campesinos had no money to pay him for his legal work but they would bring him the fruit of their labor.  I remember that we’d often have someone bring by watermelons, quesadillas, or turkeys as payment for a document that my had dad prepared .

This debt to the indigenous people was what eventually forced him into exile from the country he loved.  He  lived in a world where justice and opportunity were completely dependent on one’s socioeconomic status and skin color.  In 1979, after a stolen election by a military officer and its subsequent regime of violence, he helped organize a coup d’etat to overthrow this tyrannical presidency. A combined military and civilian Junta took power.  He was named the Attorney General of the Poor. Imagine that -- a boy who didn’t own shoes until he was 10 years old had reached one of the highest level of government at the young age of 36.  He had ambitious dreams of changing the power structure and society but his dreams quickly turned to nightmares.  The military segment of the Junta was corrupted by power and became as violent as the ones they had overthrown.  Even thought it was heartbreaking to give up the dream, my dad and many of the Cabinet members stepped down in protest of this violence in 1980.  This protest put him on the Blacklist of the Esquadron de la Muerte (Death Squads).  He had to flee his beloved El Salvador to save his life.   The person who took over his position was murdered shortly after in his home.  My dad’s friend and our local dioceses priest, Archibishop Romero, was killed 3 weeks after we fled.  A wave of violence and chaos swept through the country and the 12 year civil war began.

It was march, 1980, my eight birthday, when my Mom woke Maria (5),  Jose(3) and myself and told me to be very quiet because we had to sneak to the airport and leave the country.  My dad had fled earlier to the our friends house in Guatemala while my mom sold some things and arranged for us to start our lives over in San Jose California where some uncles lived.  It wasn’t easy to start over--without my dad, without money, speaking broken English in a new country.   My dad was sponsored by a political party (although he was really an indipendent) --Frente Democrático Revolucionario--to gain international support for the revolution.  He travelled the world as a diplomat.  He thought it would be a short time, but after three or four years he realized it was going to be a long war and quit the party to come back with us.  At the time I did not understand why he had been away so long but now that I have two kids I realize how hard this was, not only on him, but on my mom.  I admire her ability to move forward and do her best even during these incredible hardships.

After he joined us physically he still wasn’t completely present.  He was obsessed with news about El Salvador.  He dreamed of returning and even had some aspirations for the Presidency, or at the very least a Supreme Court judge post.  He would have likely done so but we had become acclimated to US.  We didn’t share or even understand his desire to return.  He saw that he could not uproot his family again to return his war-torn country although he had a deep calling to do so.  The war lasted 12 terrible years and the smallest country in the Americas is still recovering. So was my dad.  Sometimes I think his own fight against cancer was in solidarity with his country’s struggle against the war and corruption that had almost consumed it.

After we moved out of my uncle Ed’s house in San Jose we lived in some apartments at Hoffman Court near Pioneer High School.  It wasn’t the best neighborhood. I remember a night where the drunk boyfriend of the biker momma next door accidentally punched his fist through the glass window under which I slept. Wrong window.  Even though our economic situation was not great, my dad always found a way to give and help others.  There were always people randomly showing up and sleeping on our couch or asking him for advice or money.  We always had people over discussing life’s issues-- we didn’t need any TV dramas.  He never shirked his responsibility and was always willing to help someone in need.

Even though we started with nothing in the US, my family survived and in many ways we lived the American dream.  Through hard work and persistence we ended up with a nice house,  two cars, and a Colecovision game console. He always pushed education on the kids,  whether we liked it or not, and we all went on to college and became professionals.  He instilled a strong work ethic, a love of learning, and connection to the natural world.

BUT, although it looked like the normal American dream, he made sure everything had a revolutionary twist to it. He taught us critical thinking, especially against the popular culture.  He played devil’s advocate after each trip to church, movie, even commercials--pointing out biases, injustice, and structural injustices.  Seeing life in this way sometimes made it difficult to fit in as a kid, but now I see that it was essential in shaping a view of the world I would like to see for our children and grandchildren.  I followed his lead and continue these same critiques of the mainstream culture today with my own children.  Growing up we sometimes wished he was a little more “normal” but now we cherish that he made us a little “different”.   He refused to watch much TV (except for the news) and instead he used his time to grow corn, squash, and tomatoes in our backyard (before it was cool to be an urban farmer).  He wrote poetry, got an AA in electronics, got a truck driver’s license, and wrote critical essays on politics and economic theories.  He was an incredible example of living and breathing your ideals.

Later in life he realized that although his battles for social justice were important, his inner peace, family, and friends were of the ultimate importance.  He realized that love was a binding force around everyone and that we are all connected to the earth and each other, during life and after death.   After college he had always been a man of logic and not very sensitive in terms of emotions.  In his last year he stopped reading the newspaper and focused on enjoying time with his wife, siblings, grandchildren and friends.  He returned to his beloved El Salvador not to fight or to transform it, but to relive his childhood memories of  balmy nights, drinking coconut water cut with a machete, and the sound of his sister, Doris, making him fresh pupusas.  He came full-circle to an inner peace and wisdom that reflected his childhood enjoyment of life.  The Costa Ricans have a beautiful saying-- “Pura Vida” (Pure Life).  I think he was learning what that meant.

I am finally finding peace with his death because he lived a life worth living, worth emulating.   His gifts live on in all of us.  He died on Martin Luther King day, which I think is fitting since they had many of the same ideals and dreams.  I had the honor of attending a memorial for Martin Luther King and his family asked that this holiday be a Day of Action in his honor.  I liked that idea, so I invite you to celebrate his life by doing something like:

• read a Pablo Neruda poem
• study the great Philosophers
• plant a garden
• swing on a hammock
• jump into a cool river
• play chess with a child
• imagine a better world
• Start a revolution
• most importantly, enjoy a cup of Apaneca coffee and a warm salvadorean quesadilla with your friends and family.

Adios Papi! Vivistes una Pura Vida!