This is another rehashed blog to celebrate my latest portrait.  There isn't much to add to the original story of Claudinei.  Even if you've read it before, it's worth a re-read.  Perhaps, he'll make you cry as well, so be prepared.

The day was a little stressful.  For starters, my ankle was swollen and I could barely walk.  It appears I’ve played my last game of Twister - ever.  I played it twice at a party in Marumbi.  In the first game, I shamelessly cheated.  When you are a visiting “celebrity”, you can bump, push, smack and slap anyone in Twister and nobody cares when you win.  That kind of behavior only lasts one game.  I tried to behave myself in the second game, but I somehow sprained my ankle.  Alisson, otherwise known as Deus, said it was karma.  I guess he should know about that.  Anyway, I didn’t move around well all day.

It was my final day to paint on mural 51 in Barbosa Ferraz, Brasil, and we didn’t arrive on site until after lunch.  That gave me about five hours to work.  That should have been plenty of time, but there were distractions. 

I’d gotten into the habit of painting little hearts on anyone at the center, young or not so young, who wanted a heart on their cheeks, nose or arms.  I always called them my “corazon” when the painting was completed.  It appears they loved the attention.  I painted a lot of hearts.

As the hands on the clock ticked by, I grew a little more stressed.  And then, one of the teachers asked me to come to her room.  I had no idea why, but I didn’t have the time to go there.

Of course, I did.

It would have been such an incredible loss for me personally if I had not visited.  She wanted me to see Claudinei, one of her students, a man with what I think was cerebral palsy.  He loved – absolutely adored – painting, but he did not have the motor skills with his hands to use the brush.  Instead, he had a special hat with an arm in front of his face.  A brush was taped to that arm, and Claudinei painted with his head.  I’d never seen anything like it before in my life.  He was skilled enough to dip his brush in the cup for more paint and then create his own design.  During my visit, he painted a Christmas tree.

His art teacher said that he was not at APAE on the day the students painted on the mural.  Otherwise, he surely would have had his chance to be a part of the project.  Well, forget about my stress.  Forget about my deadline.  Forget about the pain in my foot.  Nothing in my life compared to what this man faced on a daily basis.  He was going to paint on my mural.  End of discussion.

When his wheelchair was eventually rolled out to the mural location, Claudinei’s teacher shook her head.  She said there just wasn’t any way to position his chair so he could paint.  Well, that was simply unacceptable.  I hobbled over to his chair and rearranged things until Claudinei was finally able to paint on the wall.  He applied purple paint to the final letter E.  He was not going to be denied.

And, he was simply delighted.

Claudinei didn’t talk, and I couldn’t speak Portuguese anyway.  But, I figured that physical contact would work in this situation.  I held his hand.  I patted his chest.  I cupped his face in my hands.  He knew he was welcomed and appreciated.  And, Claudinei knew how to show his joy.  His face beamed and his legs flew about his wheelchair as if he were jumping for joy.

I was so moved that I could barely hold it together.  I could not possibly imagine this man’s challenges, but we connected over a mural.  And, I was able to bring a little joy to his life.  My two JAA boys who helped me throughout the project were equally moved.  They both embraced me in a group hug.

And, I cried.

I’m not sure who else cried.  I’m fairly sure there were not many dry eyes in the place.  When the boys finally let go of me, Geremias moved in for a bear hug.  He said, “I might have been born in the United States, but I had the heart of a Brasilian.” 

I continued crying.

Eventually, the tears dried, work continued and the mural was completed on time.  But, before going home, Claudinei was wheeled out one more time to the mural to give me the painting he had completed.

I cried again.

Nothing froze in Tugbaken, Liberia.  There was no electricity, so there were no refrigerators, no freezers, no ice boxes, no ice cubes and no refreshing soft drinks under the blazing tropical sun.  I repeat, nothing froze in Tugbaken.

Personally, I sweltered.  I have never ever adjusted to tropical heat.  Even in Ohio, where it doesn't really get all that hot, I sweat more than anyone I know.  But, in Africa, I sweltered.  I'm not talking about embarrassing little circles under my arms.  I'm talking blistering heat where my T-shirt was absolutely and completely drenched in perspiration from sun up to sundown.  It was my fashion statement.  I had no choice.  There was nothing I could do about it.  On occasion, I tried pre-drenching my shirt in the sink first thing in the morning.  It was going to be drenched anyway.  Perhaps this would keep me cooler for part of the day?  No, that never worked.  I sweltered.

Food in Tugbaken boiled and sizzled.  It's hard to think about cooking in tropical heat.  Throughout most of rural Liberia, everything is cooked over wood or with charcoal that is somehow made from wood.  It's a mysterious process that I never really understood.  Logs were kind of baked under mounds of dirt and somehow that made charcoal.  It didn't help the rainforest any and the temperature didn't help me any if I entered a kitchen.  But, the food was delicious.  Cassava leaves bubbled in red palm oil.  Rice steamed to perfection.  And my host, Theresa, sizzled some local pumpkin (a Liberian squash) to make one of my favorites, pumpkin soup.

Food and I also baked in Liberia.  I judged the heat of the day by how many bucket baths I took.  One or two was just natural.  It happened every day.  I needed it to cool down.  But, there were days when I took up to four or five bucket baths.  On very few occasions, I woke up at night so very hot that my skin was stinging.  It was emergency bucket bath time.  After cooling down, I prayed I'd fall asleep before I started stinging again. 

On a happier note, it was possible to bake over a coal pot.  I learned to make chocolate cake over hot coals.  The success rate was about fifty percent.  But, even if it didn't turn out the way I hoped the cake would bake, it was still always delicious.  Again, my host Theresa was much more skilled with cooking and baking over charcoal.  She made rice bread that she sold to very delighted neighborhood children.

My greeting in the Grebo community of Tugbaken could not have been any warmer.  When my friend Daniel told his friends that a white man was going to come visit them, nobody (except possibly his wife Theresa) believed him.  It just never happened before.  It seriously never happened before.  I was the first white man to ever spend the night in their community.  Word spread like wildfire, even without electricity or Internet, that Daniel had a foreign guest with him.  People walked for hours to meet me.  One man, a local chief, insisted that on my next visit I must walk six hours to his village and stay a while.  You know I'm up for that.

Water ranged from lukewarm to cool.  I brought bottled water with me for the trip.  It's all that I planned to drink.  But, without a refrigerator, it was lukewarm and not all that satisfying. However, during my five welcoming ceremonies in twenty-four hours, I received one African gown, four chickens, sliced kola nuts, diced hot peppers, lukewarm alcohol and unbottled water from the local community pump.  I hadn't really planned on drinking that water, but what could I do under the circumstances?  I was not about to insult my hosts.  I drank the water.  And, I can tell you that the NGOs that put in the well to give the community safe drinking water knew what they were doing.  I never got sick from that water.  And, it was more refreshing than my lukewarm bottled supply.

I think by now it's clear that things sweltered, boiled, sizzled, steamed, baked and warmed in Tugbaken.  However, during one moment of the day in the Copeland home, Theresa paused to rest along the railing that separated the living room and the kitchen.  She wore a beautiful yellow scarf and had a simply elegant, natural pose.  When I saw her, I asked her to freeze right there.  "Do not move until I can take your photograph!"  It's a beautiful moment, frozen in time, and just like everything else in Tugbaken, it floods me with warm memories.

Okay, I've written about this kid previously, but I finally decided I had to draw him.  So, you may have read this blog before.  I read over it again and found very little to change.  There was no need to reinvent the wheel or the text.  It's a good rehash just the way it is.  So, meet (or re-meet) Little Stevie Wonder and the amazing people at DIF.

Mural 49 was at DIF, just across the street from Walmart in Playa del Carmen, Mexico.  Yep, that’s right, Walmart.  Who would have imagined that?  And, it was wildly successful.  I went there every afternoon while painting the mural because it was the easiest place to find something to eat.  The lines at the checkout were just crazy long.  And, while walking out of Walmart with my freshly chopped-up, giant cup of diced watermelon, there were containers for charitable contributions for DIF.  If my Spanish is close to correct in deciphering the message, it called the children the “vulnerables”.

It’s my guess that the letters in DIF stood for something.  Nobody ever clarified that for me.  But, whatever the name meant, they did amazing work with a lot of children in the municipality (the Mexican equivalent to a county). Some of the children cared for were from dysfunctional home situations.  Other children struggled and failed in the public schools.  And still, other students had special needs such as Downs syndrome or they might not have been able to speak, hear or see.

There were just a whole lot of needs met at this very remarkable DIF. 

The teacher who worked with a lot of the special needs children wanted to bring her class to paint.  Just like I tell everyone, if the kids are under twelve, they’re going to need one-on-one supervision.  And, these kids with their variety of needs would certainly need that kind of help.  Okay, I explained that in Spanish.  Perhaps something was lost in the translation?  I’ve had Spanish speakers tell me that I communicate well with my horrible language skills. However, this teacher wasn’t one of the people who mentioned that.  I understood her to say that each kid would come with their mother.  That wasn’t what happened.  She missed the whole point of my suggestion.

At first she showed up with three students.  One boy was with his mother. I sat down with the second boy.  The teacher disappeared.  She wasn’t there to help the third girl, who worked by herself for a little while until her phone took over her interest.  A little while later, the teacher showed up with four more students.  No other parents, teachers or aides were by her side.  And finally, she left to get about five more painters. 

Yes, I’ll be honest, it was a little stressful. 

But, there was nothing I could do but let the kids have a joyful experience.  With the exception of about four kids, they were going to do more damage than good to the wall.  It just didn’t matter.  They got to participate and they would always have that ownership.

In the last group, the teacher showed up with a boy who I called Little Stevie Wonder.  The child, about ten, was blind and sported some stylish looking white sunglasses.  In all my murals, I’d never had a blind painter.  I watched as the teacher held his hand and made his every stroke.  What else would you expect a teacher to do in this situation?  H O W E V E R, I knew in advance that there was a very good chance I’d have my first blind student involved with a mural.  I had some time to contemplate the situation and I had it all figured out in my mind.  And, this wasn’t going the way I envisioned.

I wanted Stevie to have a real mural painting experience.  However, I didn't want to offend the teacher.  So, I asked her -- in my horrible Spanish --  if I could try something.  I took Stevie’s hand and let him feel the area in front of him that I wanted him to paint.  It was a very big area.  Then, I put the paintbrush in his hand and let him have at it.  There was absolutely nothing that he could do wrong that couldn’t be fixed, and Stevie was going to have his moment. 

He painted by himself, and his teacher gave me her smile of approval.

In fact, since there were so many students who needed supervision, and only one of me, Stevie worked independently for quite a while.  He even dipped his own paintbrush in the can.  Sometimes, I just had to stop and watch.  Stevie had to experience it all by touch.  He slid his hand down the brush to feel the wet paint on the tip and then continued on to the wall to explore the texture of the cement blocks.

A few adults who passed by stopped to ask me if I knew Stevie was blind.  Everyone was delighted, surprised and pleased about his accomplishment.  He certainly was a little wonder. 

And in the midst of a whole lot of chaos, I felt like I made a small DIFference in the life of one child.