Weeks went by in this manner and Ignacio began to think they might never become better acquainted, until one day Father Daniel stopped at Ignacio’s place at the table as he was leaving. After they had exchanged pleasantries, he asked, “Do you like poetry?”
Ignacio wanted to say something that would please his teacher, but instead the truth came out of his lips: “I haven’t read many poems other than the ones we’ve studied in literature classes, Father. I can’t say I much like the poems we’ve read.”
“Maybe you need to read contemporary poetry.”
Ignacio was puzzled. He thought all poetry was old.
The following day, Father Daniel handed him a copy of Marilyn Monroe, and Other Poems. “The author, Ernesto Cardenal, is a priest and a poet,” Father Daniel said.
Ignacio had seen photos of the famous actress.
“You might like these poems; you won’t be bored, I promise. Anyway, it won’t hurt you to read Father Cardenal’s poetry.”
Ignacio was surprised to discover that there were priests who wrote about movie stars—especially one he had seen naked in a photograph on an old calendar in a grocery store in El Carmen, the town near to where his parents lived. Before he arrived at Colegio San José, he hadn’t seen very many movies. In El Carmen movies were shown only on Saturday nights. The town was about two kilometers from home and he and his sisters had to make the long walk in the dark, which was dangerous. Movies cost money, so they were only allowed to go once a year, after the school year was over, and only if they got good grades.
On the back of the volume of poems Ignacio read that Father Cardenal lived in Nicaragua, in Solentiname, an island in Lake Nicaragua where there was a community of monks. He read all the poems in a couple of days, some of them several times. He especially liked the long poem about Marilyn Monroe, which made him sad for her. When Ignacio returned the book, he said that he had liked the poems, and then asked Father Daniel if he’d ever been to Solentiname.
“No, I haven’t. Did you know the priests who live there are involved in liberation theology?”
Ignacio shuffled his feet. He wasn’t sure what that term meant and was too ashamed to admit his ignorance.
“They are priests who wanted to help create a new Catholic church that serves the poor,” Father Daniel explained. “That’s not what we teach at Colegio San José. Our brothers here are old-school.”
Ignacio began to daydream about Solentiname. He tried to imagine what the place looked like and how the monks dressed. The next time they chatted, Ignacio asked Father Daniel if he wanted to go live in Solentiname.
“I think I’ve been called to do my work here in this school, teaching you boys. I’m happiest when I’m in the classroom.” He paused. “Why do you ask? Would you like to visit Solentiname someday?”
“It sounds like a nice place,” Ignacio said. “I’ve never been on an island.”
He sensed there was something Father Daniel was withholding from him, but he didn’t dare pry. It was not, after all, as if they were friends. But Ignacio couldn’t help wonder if Father Daniel was involved in some way with liberation theology. Ignacio had heard about revolutionary priests who had joined the communist guerrilla group ELN to fight against the government. Despite his political naïveté, he understood that the priests in Facatativá were not interested in revolution, much less Communist revolutionaries, which was how he had heard the members of the ELN described by his teachers, who seemed to be only focused on strictly adhering to Catholic doctrine. Ignacio wanted to know more about the Solentiname priests, but he told himself he should be patient. Perhaps then Father Daniel might eventually consider him a friend and answer his questions.
Growing up on a farm, Ignacio had heard his father routinely curse the rich landowners, who were in cahoots with the government to keep the poor hungry and ignorant. In the world outside the farm, Ignacio had seen Indians like himself (descendants of the Motilones, who had scalped Spaniards in an earlier time) treated as incapable of becoming “civilized.” Indians always had to defer to the white people in town, on the roads, on the sidewalks, even in church—where whites sat up front and Indians in the back. A few times in town, as he walked down the street, children had come to the windows of their homes and yelled, “Indian, take your syphilis back to the jungle!”
Ignacio didn’t dare ask his father why strangers accused him of having syphilis. The textbooks he studied at school didn’t address the topic, and due to his father’s limited understanding, Ignacio knew he could not discuss these subjects with him. Before long, he too began to hate the government, the rich landowners, and white people.
Ignacio had never discussed his vocation honestly with a priest, and wished he could air his doubts about the path his parents had chosen for him. He realized that for someone of humble origins like himself, the priesthood was one of the few means of getting an education. He was also painfully aware that religion did not assuage his anxiety about his ignorance. Sometimes he wished that he had the peasant mind-set that if you suffered in this life, if you sacrificed and accepted God’s will for you, you would get your reward in heaven—and nothing else mattered. But his bouts of religiosity, his periods of blind faith, would last only a day or two—and then he’d again be filled with doubts and dissatisfaction.
Other than Lucas—who had listened to him sympathetically but was not intellectually curious by nature—Ignacio didn’t know anyone who cared about his future. Also, he was aware that no matter how much he and Lucas liked each other, nothing could change the fact that he was an Indian and Lucas was a white-looking mestizo.
As the weeks passed, and he continued to see Father Daniel in the library, Ignacio considered being truthful with his teacher. He was desperate to be shown a way out of his ignorance and confusion. It troubled him that at the mere sight of Father Daniel, he became increasingly agitated. Should he have a talk with his teacher about his predicament or keep his doubts to himself as he always had, he wondered. The next time they ran into each other in the library, he told himself, he would try to engage Father Daniel in this conversation.
That very afternoon Father Daniel came into the library as Ignacio was reshelving books. He waved and smiled, as he always did, then sat by the window. As he was putting on his reading glasses, Ignacio hurried to his side and said, “Father, I need your advice.” His hands were trembling, so he locked his fingers behind his back.
“Yes, of course. How can I help you, Ignacio?”
He began to sputter words that were so thick in his throat they were choking him. “I have doubts about . . . my vocation, Father. I like studying and learning new things, but I’m on this religious path to please my parents.” He stopped there—afraid to reveal too much.
Father Daniel stared at him, silent, yet from his expression Ignacio could tell he didn’t judge him harshly. It was almost as if his teacher saw something Ignacio couldn’t see about himself. A force stronger than his instinct for self-protection made him add, “Father, I’m not sure I believe in God, either. What I like about becoming a priest is the idea of helping people.”
His teacher became thoughtful. “I wonder, Ignacio,” he began, “if it’s a requisite to believe in God to help