Personal Narrative: My Life In Nicaragua
“Please ma’am, I’ll love you forever.” The line sounded rehearsed, as if he had spoken these words multiple times a day for many years. His glossy brown eyes penetrated my startled blue ones for as long as I let them until I turned away. His dirtied innocent face was one that came straight out of a UNICEF commercial, the sort that caught you off guard during a commercial break of your favorite TV show. Wistful faces of impoverished children flick before your eyes as a concerned voice insists that if you donate your unused pocket change every month, you could support the life of this poor boy. Now I was without a remote control or a screen as my protective barrier. His round brown face was just inches from mine. From up close I was able to
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On our way to Ciudad Sandino – a densely populated city with over 50% of its inhabitants living on less than two dollars a day – we drove down a busy road that unabashedly exhibited dilapidated dwellings and ramshackle businesses. It became evident that the public transportation vehicles we shared the road with had to be decades older than our unremarkable white van. Pairs of resentful eyes peered down from the loud, timeworn public buses and fixated on the wide eyes and astonished white faces leaning out of the windows of our van as if we were an unwelcome attraction. We could have been cruising around in a van aggressively plastered with American flags for all the attention we garnered. At a stoplight, three men brandishing squeegees ran up to our bus. The red light cued the men to spring from their stationed position at the intersection divider and into the street. They lunged their squeegees at the windshield and executed a haphazard washing, frantically aware they were racing the clock. The more time they spent washing the van, the less time they’d have to secure the American dollar they envisioned themselves holding. With the same speed that they charged the front of the bus, they came around to our opened windows and repeated with a pang of desperation, “One dollar. One
On our way to Ciudad Sandino – a densely populated city with over 50% of its inhabitants living on less than two dollars a day – we drove down a busy road that unabashedly exhibited dilapidated dwellings and ramshackle businesses. It became evident that the public transportation vehicles we shared the road with had to be decades older than our unremarkable white van. Pairs of resentful eyes peered down from the loud, timeworn public buses and fixated on the wide eyes and astonished white faces leaning out of the windows of our van as if we were an unwelcome attraction. We could have been cruising around in a van aggressively plastered with American flags for all the attention we garnered. At a stoplight, three men brandishing squeegees ran up to our bus. The red light cued the men to spring from their stationed position at the intersection divider and into the street. They lunged their squeegees at the windshield and executed a haphazard washing, frantically aware they were racing the clock. The more time they spent washing the van, the less time they’d have to secure the American dollar they envisioned themselves holding. With the same speed that they charged the front of the bus, they came around to our opened windows and repeated with a pang of desperation, “One dollar. One