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Chapter 2
“Childhood is the
most beautiful of all life’s seasons, full of wonder, discovery, and the magic
of growing up.” — Unknown.
Childhood
It was August 18,
1989. I was only six years old, but the image remains ingrained. The
assassination of Luis Carlos Galán Sarmiento, a presidential candidate in
Colombia, marked the beginning of the horrors my young mind would witness.
Could it have been any different? Living in Colombia, South America, during the
Pablo Escobar era was synonymous with constant danger. To me, it was the
bombing era. We didn’t need a TV to witness the horrors; they were in the
streets. Walking with my mother through the central plaza, I couldn’t avoid the
graphic, uncensored headlines of violent crimes on the front pages of
newspapers. As a child, I learned more about dead bodies just by walking on the
street than a first-year medical student at a morgue.
Early one morning that
same year, probably January—as I excitedly prepared for my first day of
elementary school, I vividly remember my bunny-like backpack, half electric
blue and half white, with bunny ears and moving eyes. While waiting quietly for
the private transport to take me to school, I watched a beautiful Dalmatian
sniffing a palm leaf in the middle of the road. As I focused on the curious
dog, I saw a blue Jeep drive by and instantly kill the dog right before my
eyes. What followed was pure horror: the owner, a woman, screamed at the top of
her lungs, and then my memory went blank.
I have always felt
that my childhood was stolen from me because of these exposures. My mother did
what she could to protect me, but there wasn’t much she could do about the
pervasive environment we lived in. The previous year, our house had been
robbed. My parents had hired a housekeeper that morning before they went to
work, and I was barely four years old. I used to joke, even today, that the
woman emptied our entire home but left me sitting alone on the front porch. The
joke goes: was I so bad that not even the thieves wanted to take me?
I saw her ironing
clothes, emptying my mom’s closet, and putting things in boxes. When I asked
her what she was doing, she grabbed my hand and put me outside the front door.
I remember being found by my mom outside, wearing only my underwear. How dare
she leave me there? Later, when the police caught her, I was brought to the
station as a witness. It wasn’t enough that I had seen her take everything; as
a four-year-old, I had to identify the criminal who could have taken me from my
parents. That experience still hurts to this day. Where were the adults
supposed to protect me, a young child?
Around the same time, my parents were having a heated argument—voices raised, tension thick in the air. In a moment of rage, my father grabbed what I believed was a shoe and hurled it, aiming it at my mother. I don’t know what compelled me, but I instinctively jumped into the middle.
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3 Comments on “The Courage to Succeed: A True American Dream. -Book Series, Chapter 2”
Super ,expectacular
Muy impresionnte tu forma de redactar parte de tu ninez, este capitulo 2 me gusto mucho, Dios te continue bendiciendo, feliz dia
Buenos días hija Te cuento que el capítulo 2 lo acabo de terminar de leer.
Me hicistes viajar en el tiempo y recordar cuando yo tenía como 10 años de edad y cada semana tenía que llevarle una caja de alimentos a mi abuela.
Ella vivía en una casa hecha de barro y madera como se sabe poco no sé con el nombre de bareque y mi abuela me tenía preparado arroz cocinado en leña y huevo frito con tajadas maduras por eso es que este es mi plato favorito porque eso me lo hacía mi abuela cada 8 días cuando yo le llevaba la comida que mi mamá se la mandaba.
También me hiciste viajar en el tiempo cuando mi papá golpeaba a mi mamá y me golpeaba y maltrataba a mí pero Yo comencé a ver películas de peleas chinas en el teatro y veía como aprendían los chinos a pelear Y usaba esas técnicas para aprender a pelear y es como a la edad de 13 años que mi papá le pegó a mi mamá ese fue el último día que mi papá le pegó saqué la mano y se la coloqué en la cara y lo privé cayó por allá privado todos los vecinos entraron porque mi deseo era acabarlo y los vecinos se metieron y nos apartaron. Como te dije ese fue el último día que mi padre nos golpeó.
Las tradiciones navideñas aquí en la costa no han cesado como la natilla los buñuelos la lechona los tamales todos son exquisitos y ricos.
Que nuestro padre celestial te continúe desarrollando ese don de escritora con ese matiz cariñoso dulce y preciso para expresar las cosas que realmente pasaron.
Recordar el pasado es vivir se te quiere mucho un abrazo feliz día