The Dream Teacher: LIGHT IN A WORLD HELD CAPTIVE

By Rob Mohr

The Dream Teacher's multi-dimensional composition is reminiscent of the writing of John Fowles in his novel Daniel Martin. With different voices telling their part of the story,

• Language: English
• Publisher: CloudLand
• Release date: Feb 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088089873

Rob Mohr

Rob Mohr artistic life flourished in New York City where survived as a painter and poet of note. His success led to his appointment as Artist in Residence at the University of Georgia. He subsequently taught Fine Art at several universities. His life changed dramatically when he left academia for the Peace Corps, a first stage in his twenty-six-year engagement using the arts to enable the transformation of marginalized communities in South and Central America. His novel The Dream Teacher is literary fiction set deep in the melee of South American culture and history.

Book preview

1

The Dream Teacher

1

MARCUS STEWART

My layover in Manaus was the first in a series of unexpected events that transformed my life. Fate enabled an extended flight delay, which created an opportunity to explore this remarkable city lodged deep in the Amazon Forest. I knew the history of the city’s renowned Opera House and anticipated savoring its vast dimensions, and remarkable acoustics, considered by opera singers to be the world’s best.

My excitement grew when I turned a corner and encountered the remarkable edifice created with a mix of Renaissance and Baroque detailing, that exudes an aura that masters the surrounding landscape. When I entered the massive front doors, passed through the luxurious foyer, and into the enormous interior auditorium, I froze. The great hall, the world’s largest, was embraced by hundreds of ornate, tiered balconies, which faced a majestic painted curtain that depicted the meeting of the waters between heaven and earth. I stood, overwhelmed by the dramatic sense of space. Around me, the music that had soaked into the walls and ceiling was metaphysically pulsating those ancient tones.

Even after I resumed my journey into the heart of Bolivia, my soul remained lodged inside Manaus’ metaphysical universe. Sleep captured me, while the spirits who inhabited that universe still played their illusive music within my mind. I awoke sometime later from my tangled imagination as my Braniff flight from Manaus to La Paz, Bolivia, began its descent onto the two-mile-high, two-mile-long landing strip of El Alto International Airport. I was fully awake when we landed, engines roaring on the runway.

Before leaving the airplane, I carefully put my passport and money in a hidden interior pocket. When I visited several months ago, the USAID specialist, who was with me to evaluate my Agency’s work, had his passport and wallet stolen as he walked from the airplane to the reception area. He spent the next eight days trying to prove who he was. The Embassy, disturbed by his arrogance, was not sympathetic. They responded by slowing everything down.

Picking another person’s pocket is an art in Bolivia.

During my passage through customs, the officer who checked my passport was both intelligent and bored. We talked for a moment about my work with Quechua communities. He grew noticeably excited by what I was saying and slipped me his card.

Marcus Stewart, I believe that’s a Scottish name.

My family was originally from the Isle of Skye.

It is a pleasure to welcome you to my country. Please call me when you have time. Your work is important to my people. My parents were Quechua.

He then stamped my passport and smiled.

After exchanging my dollars for Bolivianos, I took a taxi to the Central Bus Station in La Paz. As we entered the city, I looked at his card and silently whispered, his name, ‘Luis Amaro de Leon’, which fixed his name in my memory. I sensed our meeting was providential, as I slipped the card into my passport case.

Finally, settled on an Express Bus to Cochabamba, I slept on and off until we arrived some ten hours later. After a great supper and a long night's sleep, I got up early and consumed a typical breakfast of Chuño, eggs, and Bolivian spiced sausage. Within an hour, I caught an early bus to Monte Vista and completed the last leg of my journey. By mid-afternoon, I arrived in the remote village.

Exhausted from my trip, I was thankful to be alive and safe in this peaceful village. I walked from the bus station to the nearby Colonial Hotel Montero, a simple place with an ancient section where I always stayed. Settled in my room with its beamed ceiling, my life was normal as if I had come home again. My priority was sleep, and by eight pm I was in bed.

The room was still and quiet. I sensed a trace of tension in the air.

2

Marcus dreamed that he was in an elusive space. A place where the grayness of the low-lying clouds merged with the surface of a broad lake. Light, whose source was not apparent, filtered in from the horizon on his right. Ahead, he could just make out the faint outline of a series of low mountains that bordered the lake. He examined the bays and shoreline, but as he watched, a heavy mist rose from the lake and combined with the clouds and the mountains beyond. The far shore was no longer discernible. A tall man, who resembled the customs agent who had stamped his passport, emerged from the mist and walked toward him on the water's surface. Marcus reached out to move the mist away and found he was in bed, pulling a heavy wool blanket away from his face.

His dream unsettled him. A feeling of foreboding swept over him as he suddenly realized, here in Bolivia, that he was increasingly out of sync with the contemporary world he came from. The images from his dream persisted. Searching his mind for understanding, he remembered his youthful reading of the Jewish prophet Daniel, who had the gift of interpretation of dreams. Marcus realized his answer, like Daniel’s, was more spiritual rather than physical. He had a persistent feeling that the future, past, and present would come together to form a new reality.

The surrounding cold, which filtered in through the ceramic floor of the hotel room, became a cloak that held him in its grasp. He pulled a second blanket from the bottom of the bed over his body. Above him, the ancient beams of the ceiling heightened his awareness of how starkly different this world was. Perhaps the dream was a sign, an omen, of what lay ahead? If so, of what?

As he drifted off to sleep, a sense of unease lingered, and was amplified by the dream he entered. His disequilibrium was both internal and external. The dream uncovered the reality of his separation from the contemporary world. His physical and mental isolation mirrored the fog that had melded with the lake and land. Even so, the life he envisioned had the essence of a beginning, one real, but unconsummated.

Perhaps the confusion, which resulted from his frequent separations from his wife Catherine and their boys, had created his disquiet. His family lay at the core of what was real. Their presence made life normal. But here in this distant land, their absence forced him to accept a dissonant existence. Yet, in Bolivia, and throughout Latin America, people relied on the existence of a metaphysical world, one where the spiritual component of creation were given significant weight. Gods and the spiritual world were two parts of the same reality.

 While his work with marginalized communities afforded him a rich mix of satisfaction, the promise of his family’s presence when he returned enabled a healthy level of mental stability.

His work in South America forced the acceptance of two disconnected lives. At home in Asheville, his attention was integrated with his family’s focus and understanding. Marcus looked around, trying to absorb the difference, to give it form. He put his hand on the rough wooden boards of the wall, he felt the pulse of the ancient tree from which the boards had come. The smell of the garden seeped into the room and provided a growing calm. Bolivia, Monte Vista, and the hotel were markers of his excursion into a complex mix of nuanced sensual encounters within a medley of cultures. After years of work in South America, Bolivia should not feel so alien.

Yet, Bolivia was the place where friends and associates lived and worked. They were friends engaged in human development, and indigenous community members caught in the clutches of marginalization. Life here exuded a difference that gave Marcus Stewart a sense of worth. His motivation is unlike the greed dominating thought in the United States. In Bolivia, the powers of capitalism imported from the United States were not yet fully seated. His work enabled marginalized communities of indigenous women and men to mitigate the weight of oppression through transformative, non-formal education. In Latin America, the structure of his life dovetailed with communities in their quest for wholeness and health.

But simultaneously, the United States importation of capitalism worked against social equality and compassionate sharing. This created a schizophrenic break for Bolivians. Marcus’ role on the compassionate side made him a target of the growing capitalistic movement. This reality was one of the causes of the tension his recent dream had created.

Somehow, this trip was different.

3

The netherworld, an alien construction, that formed these parallel realities, was fading, as the light streaming in from the outside reminded Marcus that he needed to finalize preparations for his workshop later that morning. Set free, the day ahead occupied his focus. With a renewed sense of urgency, he rolled out of bed, grasped his wool sweater, and pulled it over his head.

The cold floor under his bare feet reminded him of skating on a frozen pond as a child. The ice tiles were motivating. As he reached for his coat, he noticed the hand-crocheted wool scarf folded on the dresser. It was a work of art. Maria Helena Vazquez, director of the program he was working with, had made it for him during his last visit. He knew she would expect to see him wearing the scarf in today’s session. He picked it up and draped it over his shoulders for added warmth. Maria Helena, wisely, had anticipated the impact the damp cold of the mountains would have on him. He remembered her surprising intensity when she placed the scarf over his shoulders. Her flashing eyes had revealed an inner mystery, one that he mentally revisited as he walked through the dark hotel lobby.

Around him, a lacework of shadows danced in the dim light cast by lamps shining through the carved backrests of a parade of wooden chairs which stood along the wall of the lobby of the hotel. These dark phantoms, with their flickering movements, evoked a sense that a spiritual force was at play. He paused and looked around the room, and assured himself that the shadows were the source of his discomfort.

Anticipating the warmth of the rising sun, he pushed open the heavy, wooden doors guarding the Colonial Hotel Montero and walked through the exterior alcove into the cobbled street. A gust of cold wind buffeted him and removed the last traces of sleep. In a final concession to the cold, Marcus Stewart buttoned his leather jacket around his neck and pulled the front edge of Maria’s scarf across his chin.

Before him lay a narrow, cobbled street that led toward the village center. The crystal light of the early morning filtered through a damp haze to reveal the textured facades of a series of houses along the right side of the road. The mist, coming in from the mountains, mixed with the warm rays of the sun, created a soft overlay that unified the ancient structures lining the upper side of the road. A mixture of light and mist created the illusion of a village being born out of the earth.

Brilliant red Bougainvillea covered the surfaces of the garden walls. The surrounding air was saturated with the wet, fresh smell of Passiflora blooms, accented by the oily scent of fir trees carried into town by the wind off the mountains. Above the houses, smoke from morning cooking fires rose in curving shafts that cut through the cold air above.

As Marcus approached a row of tall Eucalyptus trees that bordered the lower side of the road, the thousands of birds that had roosted in their branches during the night, arose in a mass, wings flapping in unison, the air pulsated with the sound of air escaping from a vacuum in the sky filled with birds. Flying in formation, they created a dark cloud that moved above the village, parting the shafts of rising smoke.

Marcus shivered. The birds’ escape seemed a potent sign whose meaning remained unclear.

A fresh patina of pastel colors covered the plastered adobe walls of the houses and complemented the brilliant yellow tone of the ancient arch that formed the gated entry into the old town center. He felt held within a medieval village, reminiscent of those he had experienced in his travels in Spain and Portugal. The village reeked of comfort. It seemed a place where he had lived in some past life, a community like those where humanity had gathered throughout human history. It was a place where life was stable and without complications, one of harmony and prosperity, like what he had experienced as a child in South Carolina.

With this vision fresh in his mind, Marcus almost forgot his responsibility for the sessions with indigenous women planned for nine that morning. Hurrying, he felt his gnawing hunger. His favorite breakfast place was close by and had several quiet corners where he could study his notes. Here, his education and experience enabled him to work effectively within this evolving Bolivian reality. His openness enabled flexibility and a sense of belonging. Increasingly, this world felt like his natural habitat.

The sounds of the village, doors opening, a woman sweeping her stoop, church bells marking the hour, and a child calling after her father, combined to create the illusion of a fairy tale coming to life. Marcus was content. But, during that moment of peace, a sharp blast shook the outer walls of the houses and jarred him as its force moved in cascading waves down the street. Around him, the windows facing the street shattered as shock waves bounced off the walls of houses and shops.

Terrified, Marcus fell to one knee, turned, and searched for the source of the deafening explosion. A large tank, with its cannon still smoking, was moving up the street from well below his hotel. He needed to act. He knew his plans for the day had been shattered, and instantly understood that this was the beginning of a long-predicted right-wing revolution. His life and his work would be jeopardized.

His adrenaline surged. Marcus intuitively realized an egocentric military leader was again trying to take power. Waves of fear coursed through him as he watched the heavy, track vehicle lower its cannon for a second shot. His need for refuge drove him to rush back along the street toward the sheltered alcove of the hotel. Just as he reached the covered doorway, he glimpsed what appeared to be a defender’s tank coming through the ancient gate, marking the limits of the village. Sounds of metal grinding on the stones behind where he stood told him the attacking tank was moving with deliberation towards the newly arrived defender. Watching from his momentary refuge, he suddenly realized that both tanks were modified leftovers from Patton’s forces in Europe, dumped here to support the Bolivian Military.

Searching for safety, he entered the hotel and headed for the rear courtyard, where his room was located. The thought of escaping out the back drove him into the crowd milling about in the hotel. He moved quickly through the high-vaulted lobby just as another explosion rocked the building, as small flakes of masonry from the ceiling showered down around Marcus. Guests, awakened by the sounds of the cannons and the falling debris, began to come out of their rooms, making his path through this growing crowd difficult.

Marcus finally reached the arched hallway, passing a series of rooms that occupied the new center of the hotel. Just then, a third explosion shook the building. Escaping from under the heavy plaster ceiling, which was beginning to crumble, he wove his way through the flow of guests filling the hall as they moved into the lobby.

Chaos surrounded him. The smell of fear hung in the air.

An old man grabbed Marcus by the shoulder and asked, What is happening?

Two tanks are fighting in the street, he answered as he struggled to make his way through a final doorway opening into the rear courtyard. Behind Marcus, a roar of voices filled the air in response to a heavy crash.

Free of the crowd, he made his way into the empty garden facing his room. The sounds, now muffled by the heavy adobe walls of the hotel, seemed far away.

The trees and plants surrounding him were uninterested in human frailties.

Outside, the advantage of alignment had enabled the attacking tank to hit the defending tank below its cannon. The defender’s rifled cannon barrel had broken loose and fell to one side as the tank then pitched upward. The driver and his two-man team scrambled out of the hatch, thankful they had escaped the likely explosion of their tank loaded with munitions. Free, they ran up the street toward the town square,

Marcus Stewart felt he was momentarily safe within the garden, where mature trees, dense growth of Laurels, and the surrounding veranda sheltered him. This space of solace, untouched by the destruction apparent in the front lobby, imparted a sense of hope the outer world had denied him. Looking up through the open spaces above the garden, Marcus realized the orange glow that filled the sky was a sign that marked the destruction of the defending tank. It is now clear that this fight, in this remote village far from the country’s commercial center in La Paz, was part of the battle for control of Bolivia.

He moved through the garden’s lush foliage, hoping to find an escape route. The once-friendly deciduous trees that filled the space denied him any sense of comfort. They stood apart, silent, uninterested in his plight. Not responding to his desperation, the trees rose above him and blocked out the sky. Their silence removed any sense of the refuge they might have offered. Seeking comfort, he reached out and touched an overhanging branch of one of the trees. He felt a slight vibration in response, then walked into the center of the courtyard and stood for a moment under their equivocal cover. Behind him, a limb cracked years ago by lightning and now loosened by the shock waves from the cannon fire, fell crashing to the earth.

The Gods of War had spoken this single word that opened the way for death and destruction throughout Bolivia.

Trying to settle his labored breathing, Marcus climbed the stairway to the covered veranda and walked to his room in the back corner of the rear courtyard. He looked over the high back wall, to the steep slope below. In another time, when peace was possible, what he saw would be a scene of great beauty. Beyond him, the mountains soared upward, forming a massive wall that stood in stark contrast to the adobe wall surrounding the garden. Broken glass fragments had been fixed to the top of the wall, making escape difficult. Fatigued, he sat down in one of the well-worn leather chairs that lined the veranda. Exhausted by his struggle, he settled into its depths. He felt secure, held within this vestige of an earlier age, a time when the hotel was no more than a few tile-roofed rooms. Marcus gave silent thanks to all the Gods, both those of the past and those of the present.

The exposed beams above him, and the carved doors of the rooms, reminded him of Bolivia as it had been. This garden and veranda were historic vestiges of a gentler life. As his breathing settled into its normal rhythm, the sounds within the hotel grew quiet. Below him, he noticed birds feeding on the ground beneath the mature trees where he, moments before, had walked. Unconcerned with the events in the street, green-breasted brush Finches feasted on insects and worms that emerged to consume the morning dampness. Watching the birds, Marcus realizes that humans and their destructive tendencies play a small part in the vast array of life that inhabits this planet.

For Marcus, this understanding raises serious questions about his future.

4

Emotionally drained, Marcus rested on the veranda in front of his room, finding a modicum of comfort in one of the hotel's worn leather chairs. The wind from the mountains began to pull the warmth out of the surrounding space. Fighting despair, he breathed deeply, seeking to recover from the stress of the morning. He looked out across the garden, and beyond, over the valley, and the mountains, trying to see beyond it all.

His mind filled with images of his sons playing in front of their home, nestled in the woods just outside Asheville. Seeing them calms him. He wonders how they would mature without him. How will Catherine react when she hears the news from Bolivia? Her concern will be for our boys and their care. She has a gift for generating peace, and her gentle spirit will move calmly through this tempest. He knows his divided life is at risk because of his willfulness, and that his wife and children will soon face life-changing adjustments. Several options occur to him, but he realizes a clear plan is the only way out of this situation. He knows that his knowledge of Bolivia and its rugged terrain will enable him to escape overland if needed. Just the thought of escape excites him. In anticipation, his hand began to tremble. He rubs his hand and arm to calm the tension. His thought of walking, cross-country roused a mix of concerns and reasoned actions. Marcus realized his will must remain strong. Finally, at rest, it seems an Alchemist's magic has encased his body. Even so, he knew from experience in Latin America that nothing is certain.

Marcus realized that survival is problematic, and quick action is required. Assistance from Maria Helena and her family and friends in Monte Vista would be his best and most immediate source of help. Without their assistance, he might never be with his family in Asheville again. Resolved, he went into his bedroom and dialed the hotel operator.

Sorry, sir. All the lines to the outside have been cut. Please try again later.

May I speak to the manager, please?

Marcus had some hope Diego might help him understand what options he had.

Just a moment.

Señor. Marcus, how may I help?

Diego, what’s going on?

It’s a revolution, Señor. The army is divided, and General Banzer, a conservative German, is trying to displace our president. Cochabamba was occupied late yesterday. Similar skirmishes for control are taking place in most provincial centers.

Can he succeed? Marcus waited as Diego thought about his question.

It’s difficult to say. We will know more tomorrow.

Always a diplomat, Diego had not wanted to disturb his guest with his dark assessment of the situation.

Please keep me posted. Is it possible to make a local call?

Si, Señor. The local lines are still open.

Bien! Please call 37-74-358. And let me know when you hear any definitive news, or when the international lines are open.

Marcus, while he waited, considered Banzer’s goals. He remembered it was only a few years ago when Che Guevara and most of his recruits were killed in Santa Cruz Province. Each time progressive ideas emerged, those in power, who controlled land and mineral resources, turned to the Bolivian Military for help. Landowners and business leaders who controlled the wealth had little concern for the condition or health of the people, especially members of the indigenous Quechua and Aymara communities.

History reveals that after the defeat of the Spanish invaders and the establishment of Bolivia in 1825, a dream of a united South America led by Simon Bolivar began to take shape. When his efforts to unify the continent ultimately failed, the disorganized countries competed for resources and power. This failure to obtain unity became an opening for rule by the armed and wealthy. Greed and violence prevailed. The loosely organized, economically unstable, nation-states that remained were seen as rich targets by developed nations in North America and Europe.

Marcus wondered, ‘Will Bolivia become a peaceful, well-governed, nation?’ Marcus knew that the transformation of local communities was an essential beginning point, but national action was crucial. Diversifying decision-making would be the first step. Recognition of Bolivia's unique native culture is also an essential long-term goal; biodiversity would enable a sustainable environment. The key will be meaningful integration within different economic communities to open the way for changes in the quality of life of the indigenous people of Bolivia.

These would help, but the United States' foreign policy, which focuses on the theft of a nation’s resources, undercuts meaningful progress.

Given the harnessed power of the Bolivian military under Banzer, Marcus feared the return of enslavement of the indigenous communities, as it had been under the Spanish Conquistadors. If Banzer is successful, Bolivia will be ruled by the white German immigrants, who entered Bolivia after the First and Second World Wars. These German immigrants almost universally choose to see the brown indigenous groups as servants needed to make their lives easier and more productive. By increasing their wealth, their power over government policy grows stronger. Their discontent with land reform has been brewing for some time. If the current conflict is resolved in favor of Hugo Banzer and his German staff, the future will be dark for the Quechua world. The greatest tragedy would be if the USA, in its quest for resources, supported this illegal military takeover attempt. Yet, if recent history dictates, the normal policy of supporting capitalism over democratic socialism in Latin America will prevail. Since the end of World War II, North America's self-interest has too often ignored justice and truth for material gain. The destruction of Bolivia’s democratic institutions would unbalance the lives and hopes of Bolivians. The vestiges of the progressive interventions made during the previous twenty years would be wiped out.

Marcus’ work is focused on enabling communities to work collectively to solve challenges locally. This undermines both Bolivian and US governmental interests. Eight times over the past four years, he was in Monte Vista to facilitate a series of two-week workshops that enabled members of communities marginalized by national and state agencies to become change agents within their villages. He made this recent trip knowing that six months ago, General Hugo Banzer had attempted a coup that failed. Many analysts had warned Banzer would try again, but Marcus, because of his desire to help, had ignored their sage advice. Now he realizes Maria Helena and her work may also be seen as a threat. The thought of her transformative work with communities being lost saddens him. Without her support, indigenous communities would be forced back into their historic roles as servants.

Thinking of her, Marcus realizes that it is essential to find out what Maria knows as soon as possible. She will understand the implications for both of them. Her brother Emilio, who was well-connected in Monte Vista, would be an excellent guide if Marcus needed to leave Bolivia without being visible.

An outbreak of small arms fire outside the hotel startles Marcus, who fears the troops will enter and search the hotel. He again looks across the hotel’s garden, searching for some way to escape. There was no apparent hiding place, and the walls were all topped with broken glass and rusted iron spikes. Restless, he leaves the veranda and walks along the back wall to the far corner of the garden. Perhaps he could cushion the glass embedded in the wall with a blanket and climb over.

Not knowing what the outcome of the conflict would be, Marcus realized how important action was. Just in case he would have to go over the back wall to avoid being trapped, he folded a blanket and put it by the door of his room. His actions seemed inadequate. Concerned, he remembers recent reports of arrests of foreign nationals, identified as communists because of their work with communities. Times of darkness create multiple realms in which greed and violence thrive, as they create hundreds of self-interested tentacles that reach into every aspect of human life. What will this new Bolivia become?

The wind, now even stronger, carries with it a sense of foreboding. Marcus realizes the streets have grown silent. He steps out onto the veranda and listens. Around him, the trees now seemed more receptive to his presence. Suddenly, a persistent cold wind blows down from the mountains and forces him inside. But his unheated room becomes a limited harbor against the cold. For the second time that day, he pulled on a heavy wool sweater and wrapped Maria’s scarf around his shoulders and neck.

The scarf still carries her scent.

Searching for any sign of hope, Marcus remembered the young man who had spoken with him at La Paz Airport as he entered Bolivia a week ago. His openness and intelligence are examples of what the future of Bolivia could be. There is hope, but only if a majority of Bolivians will unify to stop interference by the United States Government, the CIA, and the Bolivian Armed Forces.

Just then, the phone rang insistently.

Si.

Señor, we have repeatedly called the number you gave me, but so far, there has been no answer.

Marcus realized they needed to try her father’s number.

Diego, please try this number as well; 37-65-210. Try both numbers until someone answers. Ask for Maria Helena Vazquez.

Si, Señor.

Many thanks for your help.

Marcus wondered, ‘Where is Maria Helena? Is she alright?’ He knew that all of Monte Vista was in a state of chaos and that it would take some time to reach her. ‘I need to be patient,’ he thought. Marcus considered his experiences during periods when everything was in flux. Over the years, he has been fortunate. However, once he was in Nicaragua during an internal struggle, and had escaped into Costa Rica with no problem. His arrest in Panama five years ago, a day-long encounter with immigration officers in Ecuador, and a few hours under custody in La Paz Airport two years ago had been a clear warning.

During his years in Bolivia, the Bolivian military had grown weary of social organizations that worked with marginalized communities. They feared the potential power that transformed communities represented. After his arrest in La Paz, followed by several hours of intensive questioning and a review of his work with communities, Marcus briefly considered not returning to Bolivia. But the success of his work enabled him to ignore the danger. Today, out of concern for his family, he was forced to reconsider the wisdom of that decision. His lack of knowledge might cause him to make false assumptions, but he knew that if he were arrested or killed, his family would suffer.

5

CATHERINE

Each day I wonder how Marcus is doing. The long weeks he is away from home seem like an eternity. He left on, what he called, an important trip to finalize the work he has been doing in Bolivia. We had a conversation before he left that gave me some understanding, but I know in my heart that we will need to restructure our future when he comes home.

Marcus’ work in Latin America has forced me to live in two worlds, one focused on our boys and the other on him when he is home. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I am a married woman. These schizophrenic breaks in our life are unsettling, they disturb our sense of comfort and well-being. When he’s here, his presence unchains our lives. Marcus knows how difficult this divided life is for me. My independence during his absence has benefits and mitigates the tension created when he leaves for weeks at a time. Which life is the most satisfying? How can I answer that? These times of persistent worry about the risk he faces in the south, or the destabilizing high that consumes our family when he comes home, both mitigate much of our life. But in some fundamental way, the dreams we share for our life together have been compromised by his self-interested focus on Latin America.

When Marcus