Nicaragua: Blunt Objects

Bluntness would seem to come naturally to Nicaraguans.  I once heard, on a bus, a passenger call out, “Hey, piggy,” to a plump vendor, who turned around unscathed and politely attended the customer.  Frank nicknames (apodos) are the norm and tend to completely replace one’s real name.  Baldy (Pelon), Fatty (Gordo), Shorty (Chaparro), and Big-Eared (Orejon) are such common nicknames that people normally have more than one friend that is referred to by the same apodo. (“I talked to the Big-Eared one.” “Which one? Ronald?” “No, man, Franklin.”) In the US, such nicknames, when used to address the person the nickname refers to, would result in either a severe reprimand, a lawsuit, or a beating (depending on the situation). But in Nicaragua, nicknames don’t seem to bother anyone.

So, based on these examples, a person might assume that Nicaraguans are inherently more crass and open than Americans.  I believe they are in terms of physical appearances.  I mean, social norms in the United States strictly prohibit using physical “flaws” as descriptors in public settings.  Just think of those situations when you are describing a common workplace acquaintance whose name you do not know or cannot remember.  The obvious strategy to get the others to realize who you are referring to would be to list the acquaintance’s most striking and distinguishing characteristics.  The problem is that distinguishing characteristics, when viewed as flaws, are taboo in American society.  You cannot say, “I am talking about the fat guy,” because it is viewed as insensitive and insulting.  So, people tend to go for the beat-around-the-bush strategy.  The, “Oh, the one who always listens to Sinatra. Oh, the one who likes to wear blue,” strategy.  Once it is clear that nobody knows who you are talking about, you drop the sensitivity act and say (displaying the appropriate amount of frustration at having to stoop so low), “You know…the fat guy.”  “Oh yeah! Ted!”

In the United States, this tendency towards non-judgment, this abhorrence of discrimination based on physical attributes, became the political correctness movement.  A movement of compassionate judges and executioners, eager to crucify one in the name of the few.  Inevitably, as the PC movement has become more entrenched in American society, it has engendered a counter-movement.  This counter-movement is characterized by people making shocking and uncouth remarks in a deliberate attempt to offend others, with the ultimate goal of mocking the oversensitivity (and perceived hypocrisy) of the PC movement.  Essentially, they say the unsayable, because they know they aren’t supposed to say it, and those offended know that they know that they aren’t supposed to say it.  It’s an easy way to be the “cool rebel,” challenging authority.  Examples of this counter-movement in American popular culture abound; from right-wing shock-jock talk radio stars (Rush Limbaugh), to It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, to Sasha Baron Cohen. (You’ll notice it also spans the ideological spectrum.)  More importantly, you see it in every day life, in educated friends who spout off sexist clichés for the sake of irony (supposedly lampooning both people who really are sexist, and people who don’t get the irony).

Crossing the Border: The Welcoming Party

This is the fifth installment in a six part series on a Nicaraguan's journey to the United States. You can find the series in its entirety here.

As Choco ran he didn’t reflect on his journey, on its purpose, on whether or not it had been worth it; all he felt was adrenaline elbowing his chest cavity with all its weight.  He didn’t even realize he was running hand in hand with the pregnant Honduran, until she started to drag.

The others had approached the SUV as it got closer, but Choco had remained suspicious, and the Honduran had stayed with him.  By the time the letters on the SUV became legible, it was already too late for the others.

The Honduran was not keeping up, and they attempted to hide in a private ranch.  Upon reaching the barbed wire, a man appeared out in the distance and aimed his rifle at them.  The shots echoed everywhere, further disorienting them, but also providing a new boost of frantic energy.

As Choco looked around desperately, the Honduran watched their shadows run alongside them, like an inside-out mirror.  They bobbed and panted for another twenty minutes, reaching a group of grazing cattle.  “You see those cows, they have to belong to someone.  Lets hide out here until the owner comes.”

Crossing the Border: Exodus

This is the fourth installment in a six part series on a Nicaraguan's journey to the United States. You can find the series in its entirety here.

They drove up to the Mexican-American border, hidden under the bed-cover of the Coyote’s pick-up.

It was a moonless night, and the milky way, a large violet streak, like the tracks left behind by a jetliner, divided the sky down the middle.  The Coyote pointed the way: “Walk towards that star.  An SUV will be waiting on the other side.”

Day broke a few hours later.  The sun’s heat was oppressive, indifferent…cold.  The sand seemed to conspire with its ruthless ruler.  The days of traveling on nothing but canned food caught up to them.  They began to carry each other in an ill-conceived attempt to save energy.  They kept walking.  There was no SUV.

Choco climbed up a tree to see if there was life anywhere near.  The sight of an endless bare landscape made him dizzy, and he fell to the ground and lost consciousness for a minute.

Partially buried bones--bird, dog and human remains--littered the trail.  “That fucking guy, he screwed us.  He left us out here to die.” “No, come on, let’s keep walking.  He said to just keep walking straight and they would come pick us up.”

The sun was standing right over them, at his most despotic.  The Honduran started to cry, a dry sob.

In the distance, they saw a dust cloud.  A wind storm?  It got closer and closer.  Choco shaded his eyes and squinted.  Leading the storm was a white SUV.

Crossing the Border: A Long Drive

This is the third installment in a six part series on a Nicaraguan's journey to the United States. You can find the series in its entirety here.

The Coyote was a heavy-set Mexican, with a welcoming smile, and an ability to turn a “No” into an “Alright” with a simple look and a “Come on…”

Choco met him, along with his five traveling companions, outside a fried chicken restaurant on an unusually dry night in Guatemala City.  Getting to Guatemala had been simple enough; nobody even asked him for his Nicaraguan identification card.

The Coyote instructed the voyagers to get into the back of his pickup, and so started the first leg of the trip, up to the Mexican border.  As they neared this first border, the pick-up veered off an abandoned stretch of the Pan-American, and the Coyote told the travelers they had to lay down, he was going to cover up the bed.  Choco remembers that after his eyes adjusted, he spent those hours hidden away under the bed-cover studying the feet that lay in front of him.  The red slip-ons, with a rose-like bow near the pinky toe.  The slight cleavage between the toes, the long skinny bones, the veins bulging through like cables under a carpet.  The slight scar near the ankle.  The ankle bone like the bulging eyes of a fish.  Their pungent smell.  Choco claims he would be able to recognize those feet immediately if he ever saw them again.