Santiago, Chile: People of privilege and means know their doctor’s name and where to find their office. We take it for granted but Los Pobres, the poor, they do not. When we see people in hard times, whose very appearance bears out that undoing; denial is such an easy, painless path. “Not my business,” or “Too bad,” then be on our way. I am guilty as anyone. At Library For The Blind, the blind people were for the most part Los Pobres. For most of them, blindness would have been preventable had they been born in a hospital or been diagnosed and treated early.
I was on my own in a room with five blind people and I had something they wanted. I started with greetings and simple exchanges, coaxed at least a “Hello” from everyone. Ruth, my student-helper, was good at knowing when someone needed help, me included. They knew my name was Frank and I was an American story teller and I would help them with English, that’s all. We got started with questions but they had to be in English, I did my best to answer in Spanish. So between Ruth and myself, we framed new vocabulary to fit the questions. Lots of personal stuff, family, likes and dislikes. Music worked its way into the mix and I asked each one about their favorite songs. For Javier and Claudia it was fun, they were ready but we had to coax the two beginners. With a little help they agreed, anything by the Beetles. Javier knew which Beetles song he liked, “Yellow Submarine”. I asked, “Puedes cantarlo?” if he could sing a little bit. With some prodding, mostly from Claudia, he mouthed the redundant chorus several times. She had been leaning against him, holding hands. When he straightened up to sing, she gave him space. So when I asked about her favorite song she didn’t bother to tell us anything. Claudia raised her face, squared her shoulders and began singing; “I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh, Babe, I hate to go.” She didn’t miss a word and the melody was in there. We cheered and clapped hands.
Then I learned, most of the popular music in South America comes from the USA or Great Britain. If they don’t understand English it doesn’t keep them from learning the lines and singing along. It was an “Ah-Ha” moment. This would be how we teach English to the blind. Jet Plane was in my song book; I could make a story in Español to explain the lyrics. “I’m leaving” is (Me dejando) and “on a jet plane.” En un avion” is (on a jet plane.) We said the words and then sang it. With Ruth’s help, I paraphrased it in Spanglish. One of the lovers has to leave, doesn’t know when they will be back, already so lonesome they cry. Claudia was so disappointed she almost cried. “Tan hermosa y tan triste.” So beautiful and so sad. I guided the melody with chord changes on the guitar. ‘Tell me you’ll wait for me, hold me like you’ll never let me go.” . . . abrazame como si nunca me dejaras ir.” In two hours we got through the song twice and it was time to go.
One of the first things I do in the morning is stare into the mirror. I notice if my eyebrows are just bushy or really bushy. Without giving it much thought, body language tells us a great deal. It’s a natural expression of feelings that may be as important as the words. My new friends didn’t get that benefit of either. They couldn’t look in the mirror or see each other. Their motions and gestures were often exaggerated. Revelation for me; they have no idea what they look like. What I saw was unfiltered emotion from body swaying to facial expressions. When singing, my subtle little head movements paled in comparison. One line at a time, we put lyrics into story, in Español, then sang it in English and the singing was fantastic. Shuffling around, ready to leave, Ruth called out,, “Mañana mismo tiempo?” Tomorrow, same time? Everybody concurred. My job would be to work up another song. Four months earlier, in the dentist’s office in Santiago I thought it strange that music in the waiting room and elevators was all in English, Lionel Ritchie, Linda Ronstadt, The Beetles; why no Latino music? I guess I had my answer. Javier and Claudia sat together on a bench in the hallway, holding hands, talking just like one would expect of sweethearts.
Back at Terra Australis, Juan and the students were on their daily, walk-about field trip. Olvia was delighted that my time with the blind folks had gone so well. We used English only to correct and expedite my Spanish. It was slow going but she was patient. Their son Marcelo’s day job was with Lider Supermercado, the largest grocery chain in Chile where he was an IT-computer specialist. Time flew; Juan got back and Marcelo arrived almost together. The students headed back to their residences without coming inside. We shut down the office, Juan and Olvia headed home while Marcelo and I got pizza at a sidewalk bistro and talked about travels. He said there was a night club/bar down by Baquedano Station that had advertised a story telling fest every night that week, asked if I would go with him. Parking is a challenge in Santiago and it wasn’t that far to the club so we walked.
The place reminded me of the 1980’s sitcom, Cheers; with stairs down from the street and the sign over the door at sidewalk level. I’m totally comfortable in bars and I can nurse a beer a very long time. Barmaids stop smiling when I sit at one of their tables and don’t run up a tab. But my purpose has never been to consume alcohol. Sharing food and drink is a bond that friends depend on and I go there. I will need something to wash down chips or pretzels and juice or tea serve me just as well. I can have a great time, anywhere without alcohol. But we were in a bar and my friend was drinking beer. He ordered an Escudo, I would have an Escudo too. Marcelo finished his and was flagging down a waiter while I was still savoring my first swallow. I hadn’t thought about it but then and there it crossed my mind: I don’t like drinking from aluminum cans and all the beer there was in cans. I asked if they had beer in bottles and the waiter said no. I felt a little sorry for my amigo. A few beers and he began fantasizing over women at the bar or lamenting his plight: his estranged wife had their daughters who he didn’t get to see very often. We went through two bags of pretzels and I was about to finish my Escudo thinking, ‘do I really want more beer from a can?’
The story telling fest turned out to be more of an open mic for stand up comics. They did about 15 minutes and changed comics. People talk fast in Chile making it difficult to follow. The first complete
sentence I learned when I got there was, “Lo siento, hablas demasiado rapido, de nuevo por favor lentemente.” I’m sorry, you talk too fast, again please, slowly. The story tellers were even faster, sounded like an old 33 record playing at 45 speed. I was picking up about 10-15% of the story which isn’t enough to appreciate. One guy told a story about how his day had gone but he followed a pattern. His story went from one little vignette to another; him doing things, other people involved. One little problem after another and the resolution to every situation was, the finger; el dedo, and he held up the appropriate finger, the same one every time just from a different view. He flipped us off straight up, behind the back, over his head, under his arm, between legs and every time it was the solution to his predicament. I missed most of his story but I got it, the solution was always the same, El dedo. Once it was stuck in a bottle, then he was pointing at something, then tied it up in his shoe string. He was funny, I laughed a lot.
They were still going strong when we left. The club was as close to the Sisters B&B as Terra Australis so we walked opposite directions. I think that’s why Marcelo wanted to walk; he knew he would drink too much. He could sleep at the school and be sober in the morning. There was a place he wanted to take me the next day, said he would get off early and we would drive down the coast. I would help with fuel and we would find a place to eat. Both sisters came to the door to let me in, asked about my guitar. They were nibbling cheese and sipping vino, interested in my day. So I summarized the day, said I would go back to Biblioteca De Los Ciegos again, sing in English and visit with my friends. They thought that was a good plan, went back to the television and I went to bed.
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