Learning Spanish at Escuela Cetlalic in Cuernavaca, Morelos, Mexico

Fergal, Rachel and Peggy relax at the entrance of Cetlalic School.

Our Instructor, Augustina, is vivacious and engaging. Estamos Emprediendo Espanol. Ninguda Duda!

Fergal discovers what Mexico and Ireland have in common: Catholic School Style Punishment for sloppy homework. ¡Senora Augustina nos ensueñó como como las monjas en Irlanda!
Our class (back row from left) Rachael, Nancy, Nancy and Fergal. (Front row) Nancy, Tim, and Augustina, our instructor.

Un cuarto con una vision hermosa: Each morning, just before sunrise, I caught a glimpse of the great Volcano, Popocatepetl, and its puffs of ominous smoke. A perfect time and place for yoga and sun salutations. The scenery around Cuernavaca adds to the charm of the city, and centers of worship, Christian and pre-Christian, abound.

My landlady, Senora Yolanda, is charming and warm hearted. We got along very well and I actually wept leaving her home, my new home away from home. She is also an excellent cook. I've never had such delicious chili rellenos or tamales as regular delicacies. After every meal, when we thanked our hostess for the delicious food, she blessed us with the words, 'Bien provecho" (may the food do you good). I think this a very appropriate and amicable benediction. Fortunately, Cuernavaca is very hilly, and the extra calories are quickly burned off on the walk home from school. In the evenings, Senora Yolanda invited her guests to play dominoes at the dining room table, topped off with a shot of tequila, salt and wedge of lime close at hand. Home was never as good as this!


Cuernavaca Diary
June 16, 2007
My journey into Mexico, the country that I have gazed at from my window in San Diego for five years, is at last realized. Some recalcitrance from adventure kept me in a closet of sombre safety that eventually drove me to distraction. I needed adventure. I hungered for some great change to shake me out of my dark mood. And Cuernavaca has done it. The strange and beautiful songs of a myriad species of birds, and the flitting of gigantic and variously colored butterflies have enchanted me. I heard about the Celtalic Language School from a friend in San Diego who is a devout Episcopalian homosexual (each and both are great in number). He said something about a "fairly radical" school for learning in Spanish in Cuernavaca and I immediately felt a thrill of knowingness make my body quiver. I had to go.

Cetlalic School is located in a neighborhood called "El Tunnel" even though no actual tunnel exists in the area. In fact, a narrow bridge carrying heavy traffic (and sometimes heavy pedestrians) stands a little to the north of Cetlalic's small campus, which, like most of the buildings outside the center of the city, is guarded by a tall stone wall and heavy ornate iron gates. The bridge spans a narrow deep ravine that carries a gushing stream in wet weather. It rained nightly during the first two weeks of my stay. On the fourth day, the very day I fell ill with a terrible intestinal distress, a great storm came over the city in the mid afternoon. It even eclipsed the storm in my duodenum. The sky darkened very suddenly like twilight and thunder shook the walls of the house. Soon, sheets of blinding rain fell, reducing visibility to a few yards. I had not seen anything so dramatic since I was a child in Ireland and a terrible storm turned our street into a river. I remember all of our neighbors gathered in their vestibules, nervously laughing and waving at my mother and father who stood with me in our vestibule while the water crept up dangerously close to our front step. The lighting struck immediately overhead at one point and I heard Mrs. Calhoun, the housekeeper of the Buchanan's next door, scream out in horror. Her dog, Pickles, an Airdale terrier, shivered in fear in between her thickly stockinged legs and slippers. I was thrilled by the whole drama, but dared not show my hunger for the destruction of my own home and family. What force was this within me that wanted terror to destroy everything I knew and loved and hated and resented? I knew it, and I knew to keep it hidden.
But back to Cuernavaca. That afternoon while the rain came down in sheets, I sat on the toilet, my innards trying in spasms to rid themselves of some terrible beast. But I recovered in a few days thanks to Cipro, an antibiotic available from any Mexican pharmacy. The sidewalks on the steep streets of the city are a sorry affair. They are at times three feet wide. Never enough room for passersby to walk without one leaving the sidewalk and entering the gutter or street. At several intervals on my steep walks through the city, the sidewalk disintegrates and ceases to exist. Abandoned houses lean forward into the street like drunken men and swallow up the sidewalk, necessitating the pedestrian to walk on the roadway where speeding cars pose great danger to all and sundry. I am amazed that I or some of my fellow pedestrians were not killed on several occasions, especially when the little white taxis sped up and down the city's curving streets. The "colonia" or neighborhood is called "Tlaltenango." I loved reciting the name of the barrio to the taxi drivers, who mistook my fine pronunciation of a single word for fluent Spanish. This was never without an occasion of acute embarrassment on my part. For the taxi drivers, hungry for chat, rattled on in Spanish while I mumbled, "No hablo mucho Español, Señor!" And then a terrible silence fell over the car until I asked, "Cuando cuesta?" and handed him a huge bill for which he had no change. And like all the taxi drivers in Cuernavaca, he was very patient and waited until I ran into the house and got smaller currency. None of the taxi drivers expected a tip. A trip of 3-5 miles was usually around two or three US dollars. The spanish colonial architecture of Cuernavaca is lifted and tilted by centuries of seismic shifts, resulting in surrealist hallways.

I recommend the Cetlalic School for people who want to learn Spanish in a progressive environment. The instructors are competent and each has his or her own vivid and compelling passion for teaching. I was fortunate to have Francisco for the first week of class, and Señora Augustina for the second and third week of class. Both are serious and competent, but Señora Augustina has a sense of the group's needs at any given moment. We had fun while we learned in her class because she was very sensitive to our cultural curiosity, and Señor Francisco lacked that confidence, but it will come with experience. I learned more Spanish at Cetlalic in only three weeks than any non-native language that I have studied thus far. It's clear to me now why the "intensive" classes are so popular and successful. I have listened to and spoken along with various tapes and compact disks, but nothing compares to being there in a city and having to find out which street to take home from a friendly stranger. Immersion works for the acquisition of this language for me at this time.

More telling of the quality of the school is how Jorge, Marta and the staff took care of Peggy (a student in my class) who became ill during our stay. She complained of a nagging headache and breathing difficulty on a trip to Mexico City one afternoon. At first, the group thought she suffered from altitude sickness (the road to Mexico City winds through a mountain pass that reaches almost 8,500'), but she worstened upon returning to Cuernavaca and was admitted to the hospital. She was much more ill than we thought, and was sufferering a serious infection and inflammation of the brain that could have been fatal. Fortunately she recovered well enough in a week to be able to travel again, but the staff were wonderful in their care of Peggy and her friend Nancy, who practically lived the next week by Peggy's bedside. The support of the school's staff in the midst of this crisis means that I feel safe sending loved ones to study at Cetlalic.

We were all on edge through the darkest days of Peggy's illness, but I learned an important and enouraging lesson in human nature. A group of people, who only days earlier were complete strangers to one another, came together and supported a sick person and her friend through a life threatening illness with compassion and sensitivity. I haven't felt such sudden and intense connection with a new group of people in years, if ever.


Here is a link to Cetlalic's Website:
Cetlalic Link

LGBT Pride San Diego, July 21, 2007: A Family Affair

I'm at work before the parade begins with my new Casio Exilim 10.1 megapixel. It's small and it works! (Photo by James Flaherty)

I was struck this year by how many children enjoy the Pride march as an annual event, like any other, only more colorful. "Gee Dad, do we HAVE to wear these embarrassing pink leashes at this year's Pride too?"

The same little girls with their big brother look at our one of our shirts which read on the front "Lifeguard" and on the back "Cover Up Before You Dive In!" a reference to something other than sunscreen, we are led to believe. This little girl did more work on her dog's outfit than she did on her own!


I am fortunate to sing with the Gay Men's Chorus of San Diego, who had a spectacular float this year to announce our upcoming "Diva by Diva" concert series on July 28th and 29th at the Garfield Auditorium in Jewish Community Center in La Jolla. The men in the chorus have good looks, passion and committment (listen up all ya single men out there).
We Are Not a Chorus That Likes to Strike Dramatic Poses for Merely Trivial Reasons. We Strike Poses for Causes and as an homage to all true Divas. We can also do more subtle poses
Some of us can even look pretty with our legs dangling off the back of a truck. Now that's an accomplishment!
We do not always resist the lure of the flesh when we're not singing. But at practice, you won't see any of these shenanigans. (Photo by James Flaherty)Did I mention our show is called "Diva
By Diva"? We Have Divas!
The Annual Parade is lent an air of quiet dignity by the local house wife and philanthropist, Babette Schwartz, propriestress of a gift shop on University Avenue, an establishment that carries her name.

Larry Kramer Visits San Diego

The legendary Larry Kramer, founder of Gay Men's Health Crisis (1982), ACT UP (1987), author, playwright, and activist visited our corner of the country this week. Larry and his partner, David Webster were in town for the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists' Association annual conference, and met up with Gary Holt, director of the Gay Men's Chorus of San Diego and me at the Westin Horton Plaza. Larry's is the face that has seen too much and not turned sour; his eyes have taken in the horrors of the gay plague, but are not blinded. I want some of his fearlessness and pure bravery to rub off on me, so I touched him as the devotee touches the hem of the bodhisattva. And Kramer is a bodhisattva, one who "forgoes Nirvana in order to save others." From left, Gary Holt, Director, Gay Men's Chorus of San Diego, Larry Kramer, Fergal and David Webster, Larry's partner.
I connected with Larry thanks to my friend Rex Wockner, who is here pictured with the Wayne, a journalist who specializes on writing about groups who believe that homosexuality is a disease that can be cured.
Larry and I liked being cheek to cheek. So, why Gary meeting Larry? Because Gary is commissioning Larry to write the lyrics for a piece of music for our chorus to perform next July in Miami at the gathering of Gay Men's Choruses. Hopefully today's meeting will prove as fruitful as it felt exciting. An exciting gathering of great minds: Gary and Larry.

The Cajun Bash

On May 26th, my friends Rex and Keith invited me to the LSU annual Crawfish Boil, held in the ball field by Qualcomm stadium. It was an orgiastic feast of crawfish (wee freshwater lobsters) potatos and corn on the cob. Hundeds of people ate and drank all afternoon until we were full. It was a communal eating. The other diners at our table worked at the local newspaper, The San Diego Union Tribune. I learned a new way to bring people intimately together: to tear apart the ectoskeletons of the poor creatures, remove their innards and suck their heads. That's a special kind of intimacy.

My Father with his students; 50 Years later, Me with Mine

(click on photos to enlarge)

Do you notice any differences between 1957 and 2007?
I proudly carry the torch or education and edification for my father.

Fergal: The Early Years in Derry City

Can you even believe how G.A.Y. this picture is?   I'm sitting there with my pal (boyfriend) John Gallagher.  I'm the cute white, red-headed boy with his hands on his own knees (for a change).    John and I (both five years old and adorable, n'est pas?) are nestled together with my older brother Shane behind us.   In the back row is my sister, Brenda, and our Dentist and friend, Brian Gallagher, (who seems to like Brenda) and on the right are my mother (another red head) and my father (filling his pipe with tobacco at the beach).   Isn't that what you go to the beach for?  "Sadie, let's go to the beach so I can fill up my pipe with a plug of tobacco.   We can take the whole family, and the dentist, and his child, John, who's Fergal's siamese twin."  Sadie, "Och, sure, why not, Barney.   We've nothing better to do."



I'm eating an apple on Auntie Mary's Coalhouse roof on 13 Westland Avenue in Derry. I think the white socks are a very strong fashion statement on a coalhouse roof. Auntie Mary's hand is held strongly on my little thigh to protect me from a deadly fall. I Admire her willingness to have her hand photographed in such a compromising position.(Click on photo to enlarge). Only minutes after my roof-balancing trick, I'm safely in the arms of Auntie Mary and Uncle Joseph. I spent a lot of time at their house since they were childless and they doted over me in ways that were impossible in my parents' crowded house. She's Mary; he's Joseph - they're childless. So, natually, for a short while early in my theological education, I assumed that I was Jesus. (Click on photo to enlarge). Auntie Mary holds me and my older brother, Cahir, dark complexioned like my father, stands by, his manly features begining to show in his mid-teens. He now lives in Yeepoon, Australia, just up the coast from Brisbane and south of Cairns. (Click on photo to enlarge) My older sister, Moira, sits in our backyard step below our dining room window, the lintle strewn with used paint and turpentine tins. I cuddle against my father, his handsome face downturned in a moment of self-consciousness. He was quite the project for me to warm up to something resembling affection or attention, but once in a while I got what I needed. My father is dark-complexioned with olive skin and hazel eyes, not at all Irish looking like my mother's people, from whom I inherited red hair and freckles. (Click on photo to enlarge)
I am standing to attention because I have just been inducted into the army of Christ. At school we were ordered in military fashion to stand to" attention like men" and since I had just received my first communtion, I was truly delighted with myself for I had been inducted into the weekly pageant of processing up the broad central aisle of the cathedral before the hundreds of my fellow worshippers to receive the holy wafer each Sunday. My performative life had begun at last, with a weekly audience, stained glass windows, theatrical lighting, aromatic smoke pouring from swinging censer, processing back and forth to the altar in a slow but carefully choreographed step, kneeling, sticking out my tongue, the polished brass patin under my chin held by the altar boy with tremendous concentration in his eyes, the scrubbed and manicured hands of Father Daly placing the magical wafer on my tongue. Crossing myself, head bowed. Arising and turning to face the congregation, my face, a holy tea towel of innocence, upturned, seeing through the wisps of smoke the choir singing "Oh, Lord! My lodging is on the cold ground!" What joy! Our vestibule was the grandest quarter of our dwelling, a great door painted green. A great black knocker grew out of its center like a weapon of torture from the Inquisition. Two posts, the right one sporting a bell for callers. By day, the great door was left open and the ornate frosted glass vestibule door provided a more welcoming facade. I am very proud of my knees. For a boy of my age, I had fine knees. Not those of a football player, but certainly those of a long distance runner or a turf-cutter, or perhaps an Irish step dancer. Again, white lacy socks were a must for such solemn occasions. An American boy would have burned the socks in the fireplace. I cherished them and folded them carefully after each religious ceremony and placed them in my little chest of drawers with my small collection of socks and underwear. (Click on photo to enlarge) I am eight, standing at the base of "Sentry Bastion" near Church Wall. The dark dripping walls are the site of centuries of battles between Protestant and Papist English royalty. My coy smile and flirtatious pose belie the bloodshod history of the surroundings. I colorized this black and white photo under the instruction of San Diego art teacher, Dick Greene. I didn't know what to do, but without thinking, I decided to lend colour to everything but my own little body.

The Chistmas Visit home, 2006

Clare, my niece, finds here model pose in her home in Dublin.
My nephew, Ciuin, and my sister in law, Anne, celebrate the birthday of Rosa, a family friend.

My niece, Brid (right) and her friend, Rosa, on Rosa's birthday show off their beautiful, ok, patriotic, school uniforms.

 
I visited the grave of my parents a week before Christmas, 2006. I placed a letter to each of my parents in the wet, heavy clay.  Letters to the dead is not a specifically Irish tradition, but it intersects with the Celtic belief in the existence of "thin places" where the veil between the spirit world and this is lifted.

The Family Before I Came Along and Surprised Them

My Grandfather, Michael, the great patriarch, stands in a scene more reminicent of the Lower East Side of Manhattan at the turn of the century. This picture was taken in 1907 or 1908. My father is the babe in arms. The two girls are my Aunts Elizabeth ("Lizzie") and Mary. My grandfather repaired Singer sewing machines in this little shop and raised his enormous family. His poor wife, Mary, was pregnant most of the time and apparently made banana bread and sold it by the slice to dock workers at the foot of Waterloo Street in Derry. The shop was the location of Downey's Shop when I was growing up. It is located at the corner of Waterloo Street and Harvey Street. A bar now occupies the shop.Hill, London in the early 1930s. Oddly enough, one of my better Jewish friends in New York has a remarkable likeness to my father
My father, Bernard, ("Barney") as a young man before he met my mother. The picture was taken while he was an undergraduate student at Saint Mary's College, Strawberry Hill, London.
My older siblings is one of the posed family shots, taken in Derry in 1949. Standing at rear left is the eldest, Eamonn, who face even then carries the full weight of responsibility for the younger ones; he now lives in England with this wife, Eileen and his seven children. To his right with the curly top and the protruding tongue is the adorable Muredach, now a lawyer in Dublin with one son and two daughters who bear a remarkable resemblance to their father. Seated to his right alone on the little stool or vase stand is Bernard, with that fabulous head of curls and the disarming smile. On the front row, one the piano stool is Cahir, now living in Queensland, Australia, and baby Brenda, her left hand reaching around to Muredach's knee.



My mother's mother, Ellen McCarron (center), the man with the walking stick and pipe is her brother, John, who spent most of his adult life in Philadelphia and returned in this 70s to his native Inishowen to retire. This is taken around 1959, shortly after his repatriation in Shroove (Stroove), just north of Greencastle, Inishowen, Donegal. The man on the right is my mother's oldest brother, Michael ("Mick").



My parents' wedding in Derry, July 11, 1939. I don't know all the names of the characters in the photo.   I love the expressions on each of my relatives' faces. My Aunt Mary is the woman smiling with the hat at a jaunty angle. Behind her stands her husband, Joseph ("Joe") Sheehy, from Cookstown, County Tyrone. In another place, Auntie Mary might have been Mae West, were she not burdened by her teaching post in Rosemount School, Derry. The lovely bridesmaid is my mother's younger sister, Eileen, who lived next door to us at 37 Clarendon Street. Many of my friends note that she bears a striking resemblance to Sarah Ferguson ("Fergie") the Dutchess of York. We lived in 39 Clarendon Street. The men whose faces show their live's burdens are my father's older brothers, William, Michael, Edward, George, and Thomas.



This photo is taken in the late 1930s. My mother, Sarah ("Sadie") is happier in this photo than I ever remember her. She is having fun with her friend, Nora. I love this picture.
My mother gave birth to seven children before I arrived "as a wee surprise" on the scene. I don't know how she did it.