It’s really difficult for me to talk about Nicaragua. It isn’t because I have an aversion to it, but because it’s more of a ghost to me than a country. I was born in Managua and left when I was five years old. My parents and I shuffled from country to country trying to decide where we would fit in best. We stayed with relatives in Guatemala and Honduras. My parents rented a house in Honduras for a year, but decided that the United States held better opportunities.

We arrived in Miami in 1981. I was quickly enrolled in public  school. Back then Miami wasn’t as dominated by Latinos as it is now and I felt like we stuck out. It took me a long time to assimilate. It wasn’t until I was in Middle School that I felt like I belonged here.

I felt like we stuck out for a long time. We were pretty poor when we arrived. All I received for my first Christmas in the States was a box of coloring pencils and a coloring book. All of my furniture was made of cinder blocks and plywood. I didn’t know the language that well, and didn’t know the rules to American sports, so I became an easy target for bullies.

My parents worked hard to assimilate though. They wanted me to grow up like any other child in the States. Maybe that is why they seldom spoke of Nicaragua. I never saw my Mother cry over any lost possessions, the loss of her childhood home, or the displacement of all her family and friends. The only thing my father ever lamented was the loss of his native artifact collection and that was only once.

I’ve never asked my parents why they never told me stories about Nicaragua, why they didn’t try to raise me as a Nicaraguan. I wonder if they had secret conversations about it. I wonder if they debated how to raise me, what to tell me. Maybe I should ask them.

I have only been back to Nicaragua once. That was two years ago. I had a wonderful time. I found a people that were full of hope and love. They were poor, but they smiled. I felt inspired by the natural beauty. I found the food to be so perfect, so honest, so essential. I loved picking mangos at the roadside. I loved the pristine beaches.

Even though I had a wonderful time I felt like I was visiting a foreign land. I felt like an American. It was sad to see the astounding poverty and even sadder to hear the stories of political corruption. It was hopeful though to see that the Nicaraguan people are still political. I just hope that their leaders stop betraying them.