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Sunday, September 6, 2009

Being a Nica




"Eres Nica." He says.

"I'm Nicaraguan?" I say, assuming he's just trying to make conversation to avoid studying. Either that or he must not notice the sweat pouring down my face, the green-blue color of my eyes, or the 37 bug bites that cover my pale white legs.

"No," I respond, "I'm not Nicaraguan."

"Por qué no?" He asks.

I'm not really sure how to respond.

"Well, because my passport says I'm American," I say, taking the easy, most obvious answer.
He shakes his head, disagreeing with me.

"Tu pasaporte, no me importa," he says, "es tu sangre," he responds, pointing to his veins, "y tu corazón," he continues, pointing to his heart.

"Es cierto," he says, looking into my eyes, "eres Nica."

I look into his eyes, seeing all the pain that's compounded there during his mere 15 years. Yet, behind the pain, I see hope. And love.

"Sí, mi hijo querido," I say aloud, "soy Nica."
Yes, my beloved son, I'm a Nica.




1 comments:

NanaStearns said...

Si, eres Nica...for it is your blood, your heart that determines who you are, not your passport.

Such a wise young man...

Prayers and love...
Nana Stearns