A Hero from a Golden Era

The Coliseum is Wally’s park.

Vin Scully (who also coined the term Moon Shot)

“Why Wally Moon?” my wife asked.

In the seventeen years I’ve known her, including the thirteen we’ve been married, I must have mentioned Wally’s name five-hundred times, easily.  This marks the first occasion, however, in which she actually wants to understand my mania. 

            

Her sincerity startles me and, to be honest, for a moment my ego feels a bit deflated.  During all this time, have I been talking to the wall about my admiration for Wally Moon?  The disappointment only lasts a couple of seconds, though, because this benign obsession is one of my favorite topics of discussion.

            

As I prepare to answer the question, my mind reaches back to another era and place: the Dodgers’ arrival in California and their years playing in the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum.

            

My first memories of baseball date back to 1958, but my recollections as a four-year-old only involve the rich aroma of cigars and the sight of a grayish-blue cloud of smoke hovering above a sea of fedoras as the Dodgers play on a lush green field below.

            

My family lived within walking distance of the Coliseum, where the Dodgers played during their first four years on the west coast.  General admission—the seats furthest away from home plate—cost $1 for adults and .25 ¢ for children.  Overnight, my father, a baseball fanatic, thought he had gone to sleep and woken up in heaven.  We seldom missed a home game, and although at that young age I didn’t have a clue as to the drama taking place on the field, I enjoyed the atmosphere and the reactions of fans.

            

With each passing game, however, my passion for baseball and the Dodgers grew.  Within a couple of years I had learned the names of all the team members and, as a faithful collector of baseball cards, I had memorized their statistics.

            

My favorite Dodger, by far, was Wally Moon.

            

Why Wally Moon?

            

A lot of it has to do with place.

            

Wally, the 1954 National League Rookie of the Year, played his first four seasons with the St. Louis Cardinals before they traded him to the Los Angeles Dodgers, in 1959.  In his first year as a Dodger, he became the spark the team needed to take the team from a dismal 1958 season to 1959 World Champions.  But what made me a diehard fan—and created thousands of others as well—were his Moon Shots.  These gravity-defying launches off Wally’s bat made the Coliseum his park. 

The Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, constructed to host the 1932 Olympics, is ideally suited for football and track and field.  Baseball, however, is an awkward fit.  The stadium’s unyielding oval shape placed the left field fence at only 251 feet from home plate. A 42 foot-high screen had to be raised to stop every fly ball from becoming a home run.  (To compare: the Red Sox’s legendary Green Monster is 310 feet from the plate and the wall stands at 37 feet.)

            

A left-handed hitter, as well as something of a scholar, Wally assessed the situation as soon as he learned of the trade and, following the advice of Stan Musial, his close friend and former Cardinal teammate, he modified his swing to one he describes as “inside-out.”  Although he was hitting against the grain in going to the opposite field, he soon mastered the Coliseum’s odd physical arrangement. 

The Moon Shot was a work of art, and I had the great fortune to witness many of them.  I can still recall, and vividly, that when Wally stepped up to the plate, with the exception of the occasional fan demanding a Moon Shot, a reverential stillness would spread through the Coliseum, everyone hoping to see Wally loft the ball over the screen. 

           

I’d block out all distractions to concentrate on every pitch.  What was fascinating to observe was Wally’s ability to decide, in a fraction of a second, whether to go for a home run to left field or not.  When he did go for the screen, the arc of his swing was discernibly different, and when he connected well, the fans would hold their breaths as they watched the ball rise up and up, like a pole-vaulter steadily ascending toward the top of the bar.  Then, as the ball cleared the barrier, the crowd would erupt in thunderous celebration, and I can still see myself leading the cheers. 

            

That, to an extent, answers my wife’s question.  To watch a Moon Shot was a wondrous experience—as close to rapture as there is in sports.  What’s more, today I only have to close my eyes for a moment and, once again, I’m a boy seated in the Coliseum stands watching a baseball come off Wally’s bat, climb toward the heavens, and then gloriously descend on the other side of the screen.

*  *  *  *

Most novelists are touchy when discussing future writing projects.  I include myself among their ranks.  We have a deep-seated fear, one that borders on superstition, that if one speaks too much of a tale that has yet to be written, its essence, like a genie whose bottle has been carelessly uncorked, will vanish into an wraithlike realm of lost stories.  It is better to keep the cork on until the novel is well underway or, preferably, until it’s approaching the final draft. 

What prompted my wife to ask “Why Wally Moon?” was my evident excitement over reading Moon Shots: Reflections on a Baseball Life. (Click on title for purchase information.)

Moon started to write his memoirs at the urging of his children and grandchildren, who wanted his story recorded for posterity.  With the assistance of co-author Tim Gregg, Wally completed the Herculean task of documenting his life from the beginning, in Bay, Arkansas, to the present.  Like a seasoned storyteller—his Masters in Education from Texas A&M pays off handsomely here—he escorts readers through his college years on a joint basketball and baseball scholarship; his unorthodox rise through the minor leagues; and his twelve years in the majors with the Cardinals and the Dodgers.  Moon’s accounts of playing alongside many immortals now entrenched in baseball’s pantheon make for fascinating reading. Moreover, although the tone of his narrative always remains respectful, his candor about the issues and people in baseball—then and now—is remarkable.

Moon also writes about his years beyond the sport, giving readers a rare glimpse into the choices a former major-league player of his time could make once his days on the baseball diamond have ended.

Moon Shots: Reflections of a Baseball Life will delight every baseball fan. Followers of the Dodgers will be especially thrilled to get a first-hand account of the team’s early years in Los Angeles.  More important, however, will be the comfort one gets from reading the tale of a man of great character: as a professional ballplayer, Wally took his responsibility as role model for my generation seriously, and he conducted himself accordingly.  Considering today’s tormented world of sports, this book will reassure readers that in spite of the temptations of celebrity, heroes can remain noble, unspoiled persons.

At the peril of jinxing the novel I hope to begin writing sometime next year, I will share this: Moon Shots: A Reflection on a Baseball Life is a godsend for me.  For close to twenty years I’ve toyed with a storyline for young readers that involves growing up in Los Angeles during the 1961 Dodger season, their last in the Coliseum.  I will not say what the novel is about (in large part because I’m not quite sure myself at this point), but one thing is certain: Wally Moon will be an overarching presence from beginning to end.  Thanks to Moon Shots, I can now get the story straight.

An Encounter with Omar’s Spirit

An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.
Charles Dickens

I had no desire to go on this excursion. My wife, however, as High School Principal of Balboa Academy, needed to scout an experimental farm in the province of Coclé as a possible site for student retreats. The farm, I was told, was located beyond the town of La Pintada, a community I love to visit—it’s where my beloved cigars are made.

On this occasion, however, to see La Pintada again, if only briefly, was not enough of an enticement. I knew the trip would take an entire day, and after an intense week of rewriting a novel I’ve been working on for years, this Saturday I wanted to piddle around the house. But my wife can be supremely stubborn, and when she’s made up her mind, I am doomed.

One of the biology teachers at Balboa Academy had made the arrangements for the visit, and we were scheduled to meet her in the city of Penonomé. As anyone can imagine, during the two-hour drive there I failed to be pleasant company.

My attitude changed completely, however, once I learned that the farm itself—La Granja Alternativa—was located in the village of Coclesito. Over the years, Coclesito had acquired a mythic quality in my mind because of its association with General Omar Torrijos—a Panamanian leader who enjoys legendary status among many of his compatriots. Omar was deeply in love with this isolated village and its inhabitants. He visited Coclesito frequently. (In fact, on July 31, 1981, he died in a plane crash—under conditions that remain shrouded in rumors of conspiracies—en route to Coclesito. From the village’s higher ground, one can clearly see the upper rim of the steep valley, between two mountain peaks, where the craft fell.)

General Omar Torrijos loved Coclesito so much that he built a home here—which today is a museum. He would invite select guests so they could see, firsthand, the impoverished conditions in which Panamanian campesinos lived. Among the visitors were Walter Mondale, George McGovern, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Graham Greene. More importantly, it was in Coclesito that Torrijos started to implement his vision of how cooperatives should work. It was a model he proposed to spread throughout Panama to help make his idea of a revolution of the poor a reality.

I had always dreamed of visiting Coclesito, but reports about the horrendous road conditions dampened my enthusiasm. On this trip, however, we were thrilled to discover that the road is currently undergoing preparations to be paved. And although the thirty-kilometer dirt path between La Pintada and Coclesito was a bit bumpy, we managed just fine.

This visit to Coclesito excited me because Omar Torrijos has been a formidable presence in my imagination as of late: he’s an important character in the novel I’m revising. But within the manuscript pages General Torrijos has been flat—a poorly rounded-out character. To write realistically about Omar, the prototype of the “benevolent dictator,” was proving to be a frustrating task. I could clearly see the shortcomings of the Panamanian leader, but his virtues, particularly in his dealings with campesinos, remained hidden.

My experience in Coclesito changed all that, however. Here, more than anywhere else in Panamá, I’ve felt Omar’s presence. I’m still sorting out exactly what I saw in Coclesito, but the beauty, orderliness, and obvious love the residents feel for their departed leader—evident in the monuments and memorials that abound throughout the village—left a vivid mark on me. And this, as a writer, has been a blessing because my encounter with General Torrijos’s spirit in the mountains of Coclé should help me breathe life into his character.

The Need to Preserve Cultural Heritage: The Case of Las Tablas

A civilization is a heritage of beliefs, customs, and knowledge slowly accumulated in the course of centuries, elements difficult at times to justify by logic, but justifying themselves as paths when they lead somewhere, since they open up our inner distance.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Last June my wife and I visited the province of Los Santos. After living nine years in Panama, we figured it was time to do so. What we saw delighted us. Long acknowledged as “The Cradle of Panamanian Culture,” the province lived up to its reputation.

Indeed, to spend time in the more noteworthy communities of Los Santos is to step back a few centuries. The prominent features of these towns—the architecture of the buildings that surround the plazas, the layout of the streets, the sedate pace with which people move about—represent vivid testimonials to a colonial past.

La Villa de los Santos and Guararé are two municipalities that hark back to an era when the Spanish Crown still ruled the region. To stroll about, visit the main churches, gaze at the plaza, and tour the museums is, indeed, an illuminating experience for anyone who’s interested in the history of the isthmus. The residents I spoke to in these towns were proud of their cultural legacy. What’s more, they’re acutely aware of their contribution to Panamanian national identity—a subject they’ll discuss at length with any visitor who’s willing to listen.

Oddly, the city of Las Tablas, the community most Panamanians consider the cornerstone of the nation’s cultural heritage, offered a different experience. Here we found that locals were focused on the present and worried about the future, their gazes set northward, in the direction of the city of Chitré. The Tableños mentioned—without our prompting and with traces of envy—that the commercial development of the provincial capital of Herrera, located thirty-four kilometers away, is vastly outpacing that of Los Santos. The fervent wish of Tableños is to catch up to and then surpass Chitré’s economic boom. What's more, they seem intent on accomplishing this as soon as possible.

When one drives through Chitré, the commercial success of the city is evident. Several modern hotels and a large mall are currently under construction. In Las Tablas, however, the urge to compete is already taking a cultural toll. The plaza, the heart of this city, no longer reflects its colonial past. Instead, the emphasis of its current design is on modernity, rather than on history and tradition. In short, Las Tablas’ plaza is a sterile sight to behold.

The center of Las Tablas reveals the city’s craving to become the undisputed commercial center of the peninsula of Azuero. Las Tablas, I was sad to observe, is quickly losing its historical character. An example is the museum that honors Belisario Porras, the Panamanian president who is credited with ushering the nation into the 20th century. This building, next to the plaza, is a modern, air-conditioned granite edifice that fails to reflect, even remotely, the home where Porras was born and raised.

With its sights set firmly on its commercial expansion, the city of Las Tablas is missing the opportunity to teach the rest of Panama the virtues of preservation. Absorbed in its competition against Chitré, the leaders and inhabitants of this city are relinquishing the guardianship of national cultural identity to La Villa de los Santos and to Guararé.

The visionary choice would be to retain—or as now is the case in Las Tablas, to restore—the city’s colonial heritage. To seek to match Chitré’s hard-earned prosperity will ultimately render Las Tablas a carbon-copy of Santiago, David, or Chitré itself. That is something the city of Las Tablas neither needs nor wants.

To restore and preserve Las Tablas’ colonial legacy will pay bigger dividends in the long run. This investment is the wisest of all—as many Latin American cities that have chosen to honor their architectural past have learned. Today, they reap the benefits of visitors who have traveled from near and far to experience the pleasure of strolling through the streets of a cultural icon.

The Intricacies of Art, Religion, and Rebellion in Colonial Panama

Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being.
Albert Camus

My family moved to Nicaragua—from Los Angeles—when I was eleven. Unable to afford the steep tuition of the American-Nicaraguan School, my parents enrolled me in the Colegio Salesiano San Juan Bosco instead, an all-boys Catholic school in the city of Granada.

Beginning the day I uttered my first word, I think, my mother and paternal grandmother made sure that I became well-indoctrinated in the precepts of Catholicism. Yet, in spite of their diligent groundwork, I wasn’t prepared for the demanding experience that awaited me: all students in my new school were obligated to attend mass every morning before the beginning of classes.


Notwithstanding my youth, I had considerable respect for Catholic rituals, but, at the same time, there was only so much worship that I—a restless boy on the verge of adolescence—could tolerate. It’s not surprising, then, that before long I started to succumb to perilous boredom during the daily services. To alleviate these bouts that could potentially lead to trouble, I’d stare at the religious images and at the intricate, quasi-gothic artwork inside of the school’s chapel.

Without a doubt, my fascination with religious art began back then. To this day I find the interior of Catholic churches, particularly the iconography—that is, the pictorial use of symbols to invoke the stories behind the images—spellbinding. What’s more, my experiences in Catholicism have become an integral part of my craft: in every novel I’ve published so far the Church and its teachings have played key roles.


It should not come as a surprise, then, that on a recent trip to the provinces of Coclé, Herrera, and Los Santos—in the Republic of Panamá, where my wife and I live—we spent much of our vacation time visiting colonial church buildings. Our first stop was in Natá. The historical gem in the center of the town was built in 1522. It remains the oldest church on the American mainland to be still in use.

Throughout our church tour I indulged myself, taking as many photographs as possible of the religious artwork within the buildings. One of the leitmotivs I found mesmerizing was the portrayal of cherubs on altar columns. Historical records of the Spanish Colonial era describe that master artisans were brought to the New World to oversee the design and construction of temples. To help spread the faith, the more artistically-inclined among the indigenous were trained—some unwillingly, of course—to conduct the bulk of the labor. For the interior artwork, the master artisan taught the natives how to carve and create the countless countenances that adorn these churches.


A common feature of this work, as well as an interesting outcome, is that in many temples the more graceful cherubs have indigenous features with long, flowing tresses and beatific, kindly expressions.


On the other hand, the cherubs of European features often are rather sinister in appearance.



Or, in the more extreme cases, their tongues are distorted, sometimes even forked, implying that in the estimation of the artist, or artists, Spaniards were incapable of speaking the truth.

What is clear upon considering these acts of rebellion is that the indigenous artists counted with the complicity of the master artisan. What’s more, it seems inconceivable that such items could be included so close to the heart of worship space without the approval, albeit tacit, of the parish priest, who more than likely pretended to look the other way. The seditious artwork within colonial churches suggests that the parties involved—the native artists, the master artisan, and the clergyman—had an unspoken agreement that the indigenous laborers could leave a historical trace to tell future generations that their submission to the mighty sword and cross that lay behind Spanish authority would never be complete.

Standing Tall at the Tee: A Portrait of Laura Restrepo, Golfer

Golf is a lot like life. The things that matter require practice and dedication. And then, when they don’t go your way, you just need to step back, remain calm, and relax.
Laura Restrepo

At the age of sixteen, Laura Restrepo (no relation to the Colombian novelist of the same name) had already achieved every golfing honor that could possibly be earned in Central America. At the time of our first conversation for this piece, in March of 2010, Laura had recently won the President’s Cup of Panama, competing against the top male golfers in the region and becoming the first woman to take the tournament.

That was great news for her many fans and friends.

The bad news was that if Laura remained in Panama, her home since the age of eleven, her growth as a golfer would be stunted.

Having foreseen that possibility, however, with her parents’ full support Laura applied and was accepted to the Hank Haney International Junior Golf Academy (IJGA), in Hilton Head, South Carolina. For those not familiar with Hank Haney, he was Tiger Wood’s coach during the legendary golfer’s most successful years.

At the IJGA, Laura would have a chance to devote herself to pursuing her dream—to earn a living doing what she loves most: playing golf.

Born in Colombia, to Colombian parents, when Laura was seven her family moved to Peru. It was there, at the age of nine, that she first took up golf. Upon moving to Panama two years later, she became serious about the sport.

“I love golf because I enjoy being on my own. Also, I like that when I'm playing, the only person I’m competing against is myself,” Laura says. “Besides those things, my personality seems well suited for the game. I tend to be positive, I’m calm, and I’m at ease under pressure.”

I’ve known Laura since she was fourteen years old, a student in one of my Spanish literature courses at Balboa Academy—in the Republic of Panama. Early on in the academic year, I noticed certain traits in Laura that set her apart from most of her peers. As a student she was—and remains, I’m sure—mature, supremely disciplined, and highly organized. It was a pleasure to observe how Laura set high goals for herself, but that she was also was willing to make sacrifices and work hard to achieve them.

The first time we sat down to talk about golf was a little over a year ago, not long after she had learned that she was bound for the Hank Haney International Junior Golf Academy. Although I—along with her other teachers—was saddened to learn that Laura was leaving Balboa Academy, I was also excited about the extraordinary opportunity that lay before her.

When asked what she hoped to gain during her year in Hilton Head, she replied, “I’ll be able to concentrate fully on golf. I’ll be able to work on my swing and participate in golf tournaments alongside far more experience players than in Central America. In addition, I hope to meet a few college coaches, and perhaps one of these meetings will translate into an athletic scholarship.”

As we said farewell, I wished Laura luck in achieving her goals.

When we sat down to chat again a year later, Laura Restrepo had attained them all.

“I love the IJGA. The coaches and teachers are excellent. The schedule is centered on golf as well. Every morning I get to practice from 8 until 11:30. Then it’s off to the showers, a quick lunch, and classes from 12:40 until 5:30. The school follows the block schedule. The extended time allows me to concentrate on only a couple of subjects a day. After classes, we have fitness training twice a week, and the rest of the time is for studying.”

With regard to Laura’s golf game, she adds, “I’ve improved immensely in the mechanical and mental aspects of the game. This, in turn, has helped raise my level of competitiveness.”

And Laura, not surprisingly to those who know her, managed to stand out once again. The seventeen-year-old Colombian-Panamanian won four of the fourteen tournaments in which she played. What's more, she placed among the top five in the others. Better yet, she closed the year in a most impressive fashion: winning the prestigious Bridgestone Golf Tournament of Champions—by six strokes, nonetheless—in May of this year.

“That victory means that I’ll be invited to more exclusive tournaments. Next year I’ll get to play alongside some very, very talented players. I can’t tell you how exciting this is.”

After taking the Bridgestone Tournament, Laura returned to Panama to a hero’s reception as the news media enthusiastically spread the word of her triumphs. She was already accustomed to such coverage. In spite of being Colombian, over the years she always represented Panama in international tournaments, much to the pride and joy of the people in her adoptive country.

“I enjoy the news reports and articles that are published about me in Panama. It makes me feel as if the entire country supports my dream of playing professionally.”

And the news gets better.

Because of Laura’s outstanding year at the Hank Haney International Junior Golf Academy—both as an athlete and a student—she was offered a full-scholarship to return, something her family celebrated.

“Without the financial assistance,” Laura says, “my return to the IJGA would have been next to impossible. I’m grateful and I’m fully aware that I’ll have to work hard to repay the confidence the school has shown in me.”

Although her dedication to golf has kept her busy, Laura says that she missed a few things about Panama during her year in South Carolina. “My family, my friends, and definitely home-cooked meals. But I’ve also made great friends in Hilton Head. Because of this I now feel a little torn. But I’m not complaining. At the moment I’m in a great situation.”

Laura’s third goal—that of meeting college coaches and perhaps receiving a scholarship offer—also materialized. “I’m being recruited by several universities. I’m keeping my options open. Still, I’m leaning toward one in Kentucky, although I haven’t committed yet.”

As a person who golfed avidly for a several years—although I never amounted to anything more than a hacker—I’ve been able to live vicariously through my former student’s success. But placing my hopes on Laura’s shoulders was an easy, sure bet. And, ultimately, it doesn't really matter how high Laura climbs up in the hierarchy of women’s golf. In the end, those of us who know Laura Restrepo well are certain that regardless of the outcome of the pursuit of her dream, she is well on the path of becoming an adult we all can admire.

A Prescient Moment of the Past

As I was cleaning out the office area of my former classroom, making way for the teacher who will replace me, I marveled at the vast amount of useless items I had accumulated over five years. I was cold-heartedly throwing things away when I came across a long-forgotten copy of Appalachian Today, the alumni magazine of Appalachian State University.

The reason I had kept this particular issue is because it included an article about me and the subject I taught. The piece was written by Gene Miller, a professor in the English department who at the time was also an assistant dean in the College of Arts and Sciences. I reread the article, was reminded about the superb job Gene did, and that made me want to share it here.

In addition, what struck me about the piece was that although the idea of becoming a novelist was not even on my mind at the time, I now see that this was the direction in which I was headed all along.


Hispanic Literature Offers Insight to Minority Culture
By Gene Miller

Nothing takes you into the heart of a culture like literature, says assistant professor Silvio Sirias.

Sirias, who was born in California to Nicaraguan parents and always felt torn between two cultures, has brought a new appreciation for minority cultures and their stories to Appalachian State University’s curriculum based on his personal enlightenment from Hispanic writers.

His former feeling of isolation may be common because the U.S. Department of Labor expects a 75 percent jump in the number of Hispanic workers in the United States between 1990 and 2005. Sirias says students need to understand this culture.

“There is a yearning among the young to know the other—those who are different from them—and novels, stories, poetry, and essays can take you safely on this journey,” Sirias says.

Hispanic literature, which scholars also refer to as Latino literature, is considered a growing and dynamic branch of American literature.

“The material is so rich and powerful that it clamors to be taught,” Sirias emphasizes.

Appalachian began incorporating such literature in the curriculum in the spring of 1996 when Sirias and Susan Keefe of the anthropology department team-taught a course in the General Honors program titled Ethnicity in the Latina and Latino Novel. He was excited by the success of the course, Sirias says, “Because students came out of this course with an increased sensitivity to Hispanic culture and values and a much better understanding of Latinos and Latinas as people.”

He went on to teach a special topic’s course in the spring of 1997 for the women’s studies program on Latina writers. The expanding interest in the literature is reflected also in the University’s selection of In the Time of the Butterflies, a novel by Dominican-American author Julia Alvarez as required reading for this fall’s entering freshmen.

Sirias’s push to enlighten students began with a personal identity crisis—he felt strong ties to both the American world of his birthright and the Latino world of his ancestry. Living in both worlds only confused matters more, he recalls.

“L. A. was my home, but I moved to Nicaragua at age eleven because my father had a business opportunity there. After living in the city of Granada for a few years, I identified with that culture, I blended in. But then I returned to the United States for my undergraduate degree—identifying once again with the Anglo culture—and when I returned to Nicaragua for a year it wasn’t the same peaceful place I remembered, not the same place I had left.”

Suddenly a stranger in a strange land, Sirias felt more American with his Latino friends and more Latino with his American friends. “Like Thomas Wolfe, I found that I wanted to go home, but I didn’t even know where home was, much less how to get there.”

An invitation to sit in on a Chicano/Chicana literature class in his final year of doctoral studies at the University of Arizona helped resolve his nagging confusion.

He was studying Don Quixote de la Mancha and didn’t think much of Latino and Latina literature because he couldn’t identify initially with the writers or their concerns. But that course and subsequent reading of novels by Julia Alvarez, Rudolfo Anaya, Ron Arias, Abraham Rodriguez, Cristina Garcia, and Oscar Hijuelos, awakened him.

“Something just clicked. I realized that these voices, these writers of Latino descent publishing in English, were speaking of people like me, that we had a shared childhood, that their themes—loss of and yearning for home, search for identity—were my themes, that they were speaking to my cultural background, articulating my deepest feelings, opening my eyes to my evolving identity as I was redefining myself and my life experiences.”

Sirias continues to redefine himself through research. Recently, he received a grant from the Rockefeller Foundation and the University of Houston to participate in their Recovery of the U.S. Hispanic Literary Heritage Project.

The grant also enables him to prepare a scholarly edition of Salomon de la Selva’s Tropical Town and Other Poems, a rare poetry collection regarded as the first volume of poetry published by a Latin American author in English. Only seven copies of the book are believed to still exist.

As for the future, Sirias wants to reach the “hundred or so” Hispanic-American students who currently attend Appalachian. A minority literature curriculum will also help to attract others.

“The voices in Latino and Latina literature are their voices. These students deserve the opportunity to discover others who, like them, have treaded the same waters of discovering what it means to be a Hispanic-American,” he says.

Appalachian Today, Fall 1997

Farewell, Teaching (For Now)—Or, Back to the Writing Life

Welcome ever smiles,
And farewell goes out sighing.
William Shakespeare


Five years ago, after a twenty-seven year absence, I returned to the high school classroom. Although this is where I started my teaching career, I’d be dishonest if I said that this is where I planned to be in my 50s. After teaching in universities most of my adult life—including earning tenure—to become a high school teacher once more seemed, in the minds of my former colleagues, and sometimes in my own, a monumental demotion: a plunge into murky waters in which I never dreamed to tread again, at least not willingly.

But there were two factors that tipped the scales—and decidedly—toward accepting this challenge: one, my wife and I wanted to remain in Central America, where we had been living contentedly for six years—three in Nicaragua and Panama each—and, two, she had been working at Balboa Academy, in Panama City, and she absolutely loved the school. Trusting her judgment that Balboa was a good place to work, I gladly accepted their job offer.

In spite being in a supportive work environment, I confess that there were many times when I questioned the sanity of this decision during my first semester back among high-schoolers. Only weeks into the experience, I’d wake up most mornings ready to concede defeat. My past among respectful university audiences had begun to feel like a dream, a wonderful fantasy, something that had never happened. Instead, I was faced with students who demanded that I keep them challenged, constantly, as well as entertained.

Those first four months—from August to November—nearly cured me of my desire to remain in Panama. More distressingly, I started to believe that I would never succeed in a high school classroom.

Fortunately, a close friend intervened, offering wise counsel that I was smart enough to follow: “Start every morning by saying: ‘Today I am going to make a difference.’” I started to repeat the phrase while showering, and before long the mantra became a mindset. What’s more, the proud educator in me became increasingly stubborn—and as a result more ingenious—about finding ways to entice my young, energetic audience to collaborate in creating effective lessons.

Happily, soon into the second semester my time in the classroom started to become rewarding (and I am delighted to report that it has remained so throughout). What’s more, I’m now certain that I’ve made a difference in the lives—and studies—of many students. But more importantly, they have made a difference in mine, teaching me that I have to be at my best every hour of every day—for at that age they instantly see through false pretenses on the part of adults.

Working at Balboa Academy has been, as my wife had assured me years ago, a beautiful, life-affirming episode. And today, as I stand on the threshold of withdrawing from full-time teaching, I do so with sadness. I know that, as a writer, I’ll be able to touch the heart of an occasional reader. But it has been as a teacher, particularly at the high school level, that I have seen the difference I can make on a daily basis. It’s been here, in Balboa Academy’s high school, that I’ve seen ninth-graders—my favorite age group—set off on the path toward becoming productive and caring young adults.

Yet, alas, the challenge of writing more books—and articles—is too strong of a siren’s call for me to ignore. Thus, once again my life takes another questionable turn. And whereas my years as a high school teacher turned out to be vastly gratifying, I now pray that my choice to face a blank screen every morning is graced with comparable results.