NOT JUST ANOTHER BECADO VISIT

The little house was made of dust-scarred cement and sat on a very uneven surface of loose rocks, surrounded by alpine peaks of assorted garbage-plastic bottles, candy wrappers, food scraps, shards of metal. The air smelled of crushed dog feces, spilled soda, and overzealous insects. I called out to the mother I hoped would be inside, and a faint, “pasa, por favor,” emanated from somewhere in the dwelling. I stooped to enter the low doorway, only to encounter an orderly, clean interior that stood in stark contradiction to the unkempt and chaotic external environment of the house. There were two rooms, both quite small, divided by an impromptu curtain made out of bed sheets; I could only survey the main one. There was a shiny wooden cabinet to the left adorned with sentimental trinkets and a few grainy photographs in tenuous frames; a fat television set crowned a low plastic table placed right in the middle. A faded but charming little couch and two plastic chairs were the only other visible furniture., and these all faced the television dutifully, like deputies under the spell of an imperious marshal. Not a speck of dust or hint of dirt could be seen anywhere. From behind the curtain to the second, mysterious feeling room, emerged a young woman with a very old face, brown like a coconut’s skin, blazing ebony eyes alight with expectation and a little nervousness. She was beautiful in a rough-hewn kind of way-too much unspeakable deprivation and extended bouts of misery etched creases into her eyelids and wrinkles into her cheeks. She did not smile, nor did she frown. She did not speak right away. Only those blazing black eyes communicated something; clearly, she was waiting for an answer I could not give yet.

I was on a round of becado visits, that is, I was visiting the houses of families who had applied for a scholarship for their kids to attend San Jeronimo Bilingual School. These scholarships are funded by the collective tuition paid by 75 percent of the students in the school; a quarter of each year’s total matriculation must be young people getting either half or all of their tuition paid for. The becado process creates economic diversity and gives some kids from the most desperate neighborhoods the chance to take classes in English in an intimate, participatory educational setting. I would ultimately decide who qualifies for scholarships or not, and I did not want to wield this sort of economic power lightly.

My conversation with this proud and tough-looking mother began like they all do-an awkward attempt on my part to make small talk. “It’s hot, isn’t it?”, which in Cofradia is almost a cliché. “How old is Reina and what grade is she going to enter?”, even though I already knew. A quick glance at those grainy photographs-“Is that your mother and father?” The ice was not being broken too well and I felt like maybe it was best to just get down to business. The gulf between her and I was far too great to overcome with some gratuitous words about silly trivialities.

I took out the standard questionnaire form that I use to evaluate a family’s qualifications. “Do you own the house?” Yes, with my husband. “How many people live here?” Just three. My husband is gone. “What is the family income?” About U.S. $200.00 a month. “What do you and your husband do?” I work in a maquila, the all-day shift. My husband just left for the United States. He will try and enter the country with a coyote and find a job. I took notes about the general condition of the property-clean and orderly, but sparsely furnished, and in poor shape externally. I asked the final question-“What do you want to do for your compromiso (in exchange for getting tuition paid for, each becado family must commit to a certain form of service for the coming year)?” I can come into the school and clean.

And then, as quickly as the visit commenced, it was over. I shook the mother’s hard palm and wished her all the best. I told her that I would let her know soon about my decision regarding the scholarship, even though my mind was made up the moment I entered her dwelling. I walked out of the house through the low doorway and turned once, to see this beautiful, time-worn woman smiling at me awkwardly, that nervous glimmer of hope in her eyes. She could definitely look forward to another year of her kid being sponsored to get a high-quality bilingual education from a dedicated volunteer teacher who will struggle, as I do, to understand what life must be like for most Hondurans. We will struggle to better grasp the daily cruelties of seemingly insurmountable economic injustices, the hurtful physical separation from loved ones, the attempt to make a dignified home amidst the trash and filth.