The Courage to Succeed: A True American Dream. -Book Series, Chapter 2

 

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.

I can't recall if the shoe struck me near my eye or caused me to stumble and hit the corner of the bed frame. Either way, the result was immediate blood pouring from a gash near my eye. I remember the chaos that erupted. My mother screamed in panic as I cried in pain. My father stood frozen, and my mother, unsure of what to do, grabbed me and ran to our neighbors for help.

The neighbor tried to stop the bleeding with cotton balls, pressing gently but firmly, but it was useless. The blood wouldn't stop. Amid this desperate scene, for reasons I'll never fully understand, someone thought submerging me in a tank of water and lifting me up and down would help. I remember the sensation of being dunked—wet, confused, and terrified. But nothing worked; the bleeding was relentless.

Realizing the gravity of the situation, my mom made the decision to take me to the hospital. But we had no car, so she cradled me and boarded a public bus. Imagine it: a mother holding her bleeding child, blood dripping, staining her clothes, as the passengers on the bus stared in shock. I can still see their horrified faces—wide-eyed, mouths agape, murmuring. The ride felt like an eternity, every second marked by the dull, pounding pain near my eye and the overwhelming confusion of a little girl in crisis.

When we finally arrived at the hospital, everything was a blur of bright lights and hurried voices. I remember being laid down, a doctor looming over me, placing drops in my eye that made my vision blur and fade. The next thing I knew, I was waking up. I stood before a mirror, my left eye covered with a bandage.

I was lucky. The doctor told my mom that I had come perilously close to losing my eye. To this day, I bear both the physical and emotional scars from that day, a faint but permanent mark near my eye and the haunting memory of chaos, pain, and a child's instinct to protect her mother at any cost.

My parents divorced/separated in 1986. I vividly remember the meeting and the signing of the papers in the living room, and I even recall the dress of the notary who came to our house. I refuse to believe that I am the product of a dysfunctional family and environment. By age five, I understood deep within myself that while the chaos around me was seen as usual, it was far from it. I refused to accept that it was okay. I resolved never to become a drunkard after witnessing the spectacles my father would create while intoxicated. I grew to dislike many aspects of the northern Colombian culture—the heavy drinking, the reckless lifestyle, and the chauvinistic men who would hit their wives or anyone they pleased, usually targeting the vulnerable.

My father was known to have a bad temper, often excused by the fact that his father was the same. Furniture would fly across the room; knives would be thrown between siblings—it was pure drama. I'm alive by the grace of God. At one point, I almost lost my left eye when my father, in a fit of rage, tried to hit my mother. I was only four years old. It seems that most of my horrible childhood memories happened when I was four, but the worst was yet to come.

Of course, my father is no longer an alcoholic—he hasn't touched alcohol since my high school graduation in 1999. He is also no longer a violent man, perhaps due to the loss of strength that comes with age and the impact of a stroke. The last time he raised his hand to me, I was twelve. I stood up to his physical abuse because I was simply tired of it. He realized I was no longer the little girl who would take the abuse for no reason.

Around that time, my mother was also being physically and emotionally abused by my father. I gave her an ultimatum: either he leaves us alone, or I am out of there. I was dead, seriously. That was the last night my father ever spent under our roof, the roof my mother paid for since we didn't own a home. We lost everything when that woman stole our belongings, including all my mother's life savings, forcing her to sell the house. She bought a small lot where she dreamed of building a new home. If I had known that lot would contribute to my mother's demise, I would have never allowed her to buy it. But that's, of course, another story for a later chapter.

When they married, my dad was barely 28 years old, ten years younger than my mother. They had only one child: me. He was also a teacher, working in a rural area, and would come home on the weekends. Unfortunately, he was working in a town located in Los Montes de María, a known red zone at the time due to the presence of guerrilla and paramilitary groups.

The first "burro Bomba," or donkey bomb in the country, went off in that little town. It was a weekend, and my dad was home. The explosive device was placed in a donkey, detonating in front of the police headquarters, right next to where he rented a room. I saw the news showing the destroyed little room and the hammock where my dad would sleep. Although I don't know all the details, I believe this event and other related issues made my father decide not to return to his teaching job in that area. His refusal was considered abandonment of employment.

I was about nine to ten years old when this happened. My dad decided to pursue photography instead. One of the things that deeply impacted him was meeting a good church family in that area. The daughter of the pastor and her husband, who were good friends of my dad, was brutally assassinated by the guerrilla, possibly as a message. This event, among others, led my dad to refuse to return to his teaching job. My mom urged him to at least report for duty so she could help him find a different job, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He moved in with my grandmother and seemed to go through a period of deep depression. Eventually, he moved to Bogotá, the capital, to find work. He had a family member there and soon thought of becoming a photographer.

This was around 1992, during Ernesto Samper Pizano's presidency, amid the El Proceso 8000 scandal. My dad started taking pictures with his little Kodak camera and was happy-go-lucky in the capital. One day, while taking photos of a beautiful building, he later found out it was the National Bank, located next to a police station. He was apprehended. The authorities suspected him of being a spy or planning to plant a bomb.

An officer on a motorcycle arrived at our home to inform us that my dad had been detained. An investigator questioned my mom about his identity and intentions. Thankfully, my dad was released when they realized he was himself, innocently taking pictures.

Throughout my childhood, I moved frequently, averaging about two relocations per year. The only exception was when I turned thirteen, when we had to stay in the same apartment for two years. Our living conditions were often far from ideal; at one point, we found ourselves in a dark garage and a house where foxes lived and roamed, which made us fear being attacked.

At eight or nine, it felt like I was raising my mother. I often had to pick up her paycheck and help her manage the money; otherwise, it would be spent on unnecessary things, like gifts, or taken by mooching family members who were always like vultures. With all this, I realized there was a lot of resentment from my childhood years. I always knew I came from a dysfunctional family.

One of the most unsettling experiences was when we lived in a makeshift shack built under the curb of a small bridge. Whenever a car passed overhead, I feared it might be my last day. I was just eleven years old then.

Among these challenging living situations, one of the most memorable was a house in Colombia built from palm and bahareque (a mixture of mud and sticks); this type of dwelling was emblematic of traditional rural architecture, deeply rooted in the region's natural resources and cultural practices. These homes, typically found in the countryside and villages, were constructed from locally sourced materials that were well-suited to the tropical climate and the lifestyle of their inhabitants. The house we rented had a floor of packed earth and was painted a striking, extravagant orange color, making it impossible to miss. Everyone in the area knew where I lived! I often wished smartphones existed back then so I could have shared accurate pictures of this unique home.

My maternal grandmother lived in a house like the one in the picture; visiting there so often was an experience that profoundly connected me to my roots and the traditional architecture of my region.  I still yearn for the simple joys I experienced at my grandma's house. The backyard was enchanting, a lush haven filled with various fruit trees, making it feel like paradise. There were four towering orange trees, their branches heavy with bright, juicy fruit, and another four majestic mango trees that would shower the ground with ripe, fragrant mangoes every May, creating a carpet of sweetness. The níspero trees added a unique flavor to the mix, while the guanabana trees stood tall and proud. Lemons, anon, and even banana trees rounded out this vibrant orchard, each contributing to that yard's rich tapestry of life.

But it wasn’t just the abundance of fruit that made the place unique. The atmosphere was infused and saturated with a profound peace and tranquility. The hammock, gently swaying in the breeze, became a sanctuary where time seemed to slow down, wrapping me in its comforting embrace. The soothing sound of water added to the serenity, creating a perfect symphony of nature that melted the world's worries. This idyllic scene is now a cherished memory, deeply in my mind. One day, I hope to bring that vision back to life, to recreate the magical essence of my grandma's backyard and hold onto the serenity it once brought me.

My grandmother’s home no longer exists. Theses are no longer typical of modern infrastructure, as contemporary construction methods have become more prevalent. However, these have been preserved as critical cultural landmarks instead of fading into obscurity.

One of the best examples of this preservation can be found in San Juan de Betulia, a neighboring within minutes of my grandma’s house. I had the opportunity to visit this town during the summer of 2023. The city has been transformed into an open-air art gallery, with its palm and bahareque houses beautifully painted with various designs along what is now known as the Route of Color.

These houses, rich in history and cultural significance, are not just relics of the past. They have been reborn in vibrant colors, standing proudly amidst the modern buildings that have sprung up in Betulia over the years. The stories of the generations of families who lived in these homes are intertwined with the town's fabric, adding depth and meaning to the colorful facades that now draw attention from all corners.

Having lived in one of these traditional homes, I can attest to their remarkable design. Despite the region's often harsh, hot temperatures, these houses were incredibly cool and fresh. The palm thatch and bahareque construction provided natural insulation, keeping the interior comfortable even during the hottest parts of the day. This natural cooling effect made these homes practical and a testament to the ingenuity of traditional building methods.

Not everything was a tragedy growing up, celebrating holidays, Christmas was the main holiday, a vibrant and deeply rooted celebration filled with religious traditions, family gatherings, music, and festive activities. The season, one of the most anticipated times of the year, reflected the warmth and cultural richness of the region.

Participating in the Novenas de Aguinaldo was not just a religious observance but a communal experience. Families and friends gathered to pray, sing carols, and reflect on nativity each evening. The tradition of hosting these gatherings in different homes each night fostered a sense of community, making everyone feel a part of the celebration. The novenas were accompanied by traditional Christmas carols (villancicos) and usually featured small nativity scenes (pesebres) set up in homes, further enhancing the feeling of togetherness.

Christmas Eve, known as Nochebuena, was the pinnacle of the holiday season, filled with joy and anticipation. Families came together for a special dinner that typically included a variety of traditional Colombian dishes such as lechona (stuffed roast pork), buñuelos (fried dough balls), natilla (a type of custard), and tamales. Many people attended the Misa de Gallo, or Midnight Mass, a profoundly significant religious ceremony marking the birth of Jesus. The churches in Sincelejo were beautifully decorated, and the atmosphere was exciting. After the mass, families returned home to exchange gifts, an eagerly awaited moment. In many households, it was believed that Baby Jesus (El Niño Dios) brought gifts for the children, adding to the thrill of the evening.

The presence, or nativity scene, was the central decorative element in many homes, churches, and public spaces during Christmas. This tradition dates back centuries and is a visual representation of the birth of Jesus and the Holy Family. These scenes can be elaborate, with figurines representing the Holy Family, shepherds, and animals, often set amidst landscapes depicting the rural countryside. While the presence is traditional, Christmas trees and lights have become popular in Sincelejo. Homes and streets were adorned with colorful lights, and the city often hosted public lighting displays that attracted visitors.

Christmas carols, known as villancicos, were essential to the holiday season. These songs were sung during the novenas and at gatherings. The music was lively and reflected the joyful spirit of the season. Parrandas were lively gatherings where people sang, danced, and celebrated with traditional music, including Vallenato and cumbia. These festive parties were familiar throughout the holiday season and often continued late into the night.

During the Christmas season, the streets of Sincelejo came alive with various public events. Parades, street markets, and public concerts added to the festive atmosphere. Fireworks were also a common sight. They often set off on Christmas and New Year’s Eve, lighting the sky with color and excitement.

The festive spirit of the Christmas season continued into New Year’s Eve when the city was alive with similar traditions. Family gatherings, meals, and music continued, and the city often had special events to welcome the new year. The night was filled with a sense of celebration, culminating in fireworks and the burning of año viejo effigies, symbolizing the farewell to the old year and the joyous welcome of the new.

The Christmas season was one of my favorites. It seems like in Colombia, there’s always something to celebrate. It often feels like every other Monday, if not every Monday, is marked as a holiday. I always joke that they even celebrate the Day of the Potato and other quirky occasions in Colombia. The country has numerous celebration days throughout the year, encompassing national holidays, cultural festivities, and local traditions. Colombians are always finding new reasons to celebrate.