{"id":107436,"date":"2017-02-06T13:18:28","date_gmt":"2017-02-06T18:18:28","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=107436"},"modified":"2017-02-06T17:03:55","modified_gmt":"2017-02-06T22:03:55","slug":"different-sanctuaries","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/02\/06\/different-sanctuaries\/","title":{"rendered":"Different Sanctuaries"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/a>

Jane Brewster, Houses on the Bayou<\/i>, 2008.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Just about every Tuesday, I play soccer in City Park. Our pickup matches are in the back, behind the New Orleans Museum of Art. My first few weeks in the city, I only joined the ones out front, which were mostly made up of oil-and-gas types, or parents, or younger white dudes.<\/p>\n

One day, during a halfway decent set, a couple of Honduran guys settled on the grass to watch. Afterward, they asked what the fuck I was doing. Was I up for a real game? They told me they needed forwards. Maybe they could use me for a set, they said. Their English was a little slow, and eventually I switched to Spanish, and that\u2019s when their eyes almost popped out of their heads.<\/p>\n

Being black and speaking anything but English in this country can do that. After living in Houston, I\u2019d picked up pieces of Spanish, mostly to talk to boys, but also because it fuels the city, one that\u2019s nearly half Latino and just about seven hours from the border. Mexico\u2019s culture is virtually inextricable from Houston\u2014the further east you drive, you\u2019ll hit taquerias and cantinas ad infinitum. I started spending most of my time out that way, but never once was I treated like an outsider, or el pinche gringo negro. Everyone treated me like I was home.\u00a0<\/p>\n

New Orleans, meanwhile, is home to the largest Honduran community in the States. Their sway over the culture dates to the late nineteenth\u00a0century, before the United Fruit Company\u2019s relocation to 321 Saint Charles Avenue. Despite keeping their headquarters in Louisiana, the company grew\u00a0their bananas in Honduras (prompting O. Henry to deem the country a \u201cbanana republic\u201d). On the heels of the country\u2019s\u00a0turmoil, a trail of \u00e9migr\u00e9s followed over the decades, surging\u00a0after Hurricane Mitch in 1998. More recently, after Katrina, a couple thousand more Hondurans arrived in the parish, without whom the city wouldn\u2019t have been rebuilt nearly as quickly. A lot of white folks simply weren\u2019t about to do that work. And once the Bush administration relaxed some of the city\u2019s labor laws, a loose system was in place for newcomers to build new lives of their own.<\/p>\n

Nowadays, the community is spread throughout the city\u2019s limits\u2014from the suburbs of Kenner and Metairie to the parish\u2019s expanses in the east. Some parks are privy to all-Latino sports leagues, and Mid-City hosts markets and food trucks along the street car, and there aren\u2019t too many Honduran restaurants nestled across the city but somehow everyone knows where to find a baleada<\/em>. Every few blocks, you\u2019ll pass gaggles of men with brown bags or mothers waiting for buses or kids keeled over in laughter, and if there\u2019s anything particularly exceptional about these vignettes, it\u2019s that they\u2019re reminiscent of elsewhere\u2014but really you\u2019re just in New Orleans.<\/p>\n

That next week, I joined the match behind the museum. Thirty seconds in, it was obvious I\u2019d made a mistake. The players were mainly Honduran, most of them nearly a decade older, but their speed wouldn\u2019t have told you so. They played devastatingly proficient to a man. My team started passing me the ball, and I immediately started losing it. After it was swept from my feet a fourth time, our goalie left his post to suggest I settle in on defense.<\/p>\n

He was around my age. He took the time to point out the playmakers. Across the field, someone would rattle a call in Spanish, and he\u2019d repeat it for me just a little slower. After the game, I thanked him, and he introduced himself as Ramiro, saying I\u2019d catch up eventually.<\/p>\n

He was wrong, but I got a little better, and I never went back to those games out front. Eventually, occasionally, they started passing me the ball again. I kept showing up, and the play felt less and less intense. Some more months passed, and then the election happened\u2014my sense of gravity shifted, and soccer was the last thing on my mind.<\/p>\n

But that next week, I showed up anyway, wondering if anyone else would. And of course they did, and the game was rough\u2014we played faster, harder, until we devolved into obvious fouls. Stray cleats collided with shins. Two defenders plowed into a midfielder on the pitch. Once, after a header brought the ball soaring over our shoulders, a man leaped to top it off, only to find himself crushed on both ends.<\/p>\n

But that\u2019s when a strange thing happened: every player on the field slowed down. We took the time to help our guy up. We checked on him, made sure he was good.<\/p>\n

Once, after knocking me on my ass, a graying man broke his stride to lift me up.<\/p>\n

Todo bien<\/em>, he said, and I affirmed. Then he nodded, and I nodded, and we started again.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

One day, eating lunch by some benches of the university I work at, I ran into Ramiro. He was wearing track shorts and a hoodie. He nodded my way and took a seat beside me, and he asked why the hell I was wearing a name tag.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d been studying engineering. What he\u2019d really been interested in was social work. But there\u2019s wasn\u2019t any money in that, he said, and he hadn\u2019t come here to be broke.<\/p>\n

Ramiro made it to North America as a kid. He\u2019d ridden La Bestia<\/em> from Guatemala, after walking there from Honduras, taking the freight train with his uncle and a sister across Mexico. After many months, once they\u2019d made it out of Texas and through a stint in Los Angeles, he\u2019d ended up in Louisiana. He\u2019d learned English in California. He\u2019d mopped gas stations in Gretna. In the Ninth Ward, he swept porches, caught chickens, and cleaned fruit. He\u2019d applied for\u00a0Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals in high school and got it, and I learned his story in bits and pieces over the next few weeks. Mostly we talked about his professors and trap music and hangovers, or whatever financial ailments we\u2019d been negotiating or some egregious play I\u2019d made the week before.<\/p>\n

Once, I asked if he planned on staying in the States or if he ever thought about going back home, and he looked at me like I\u2019d just propositioned him.<\/p>\n

Where the fuck would I go, he said. This is me now. I\u2019m an American.<\/p>\n

He asked if I ever thought about going back to Africa. I told him I did not.<\/p>\n

We had lunch again a little while ago, after the president had issued his executive order on sanctuary cities and the mayor of New Orleans had insisted that he would not lead a deportation army<\/a>. I didn\u2019t want to ask Ramiro how he felt about all that, because I was pretty sure I knew, but I told him I\u2019d noticed he hadn\u2019t been on the field in a while.<\/p>\n

He looked at me and laughed. He told me he\u2019d been busy. I\u2019ve been here, he said, opening his arms, taking everything in. I\u2019ve been trying not to waste any time.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Bryan Washington divides his time between Houston and New Orleans. He is working on a collection of short stories.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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