Nica Dust

I stumbled upon this writing and wanted to include it because I wrote it the first week I was here...in shock.

Nica Dust

“I can always be found” (Liars).

Third worlds know no comfort. I am third in line for my beans and rice. Don’t drink the ice. Bring the toilet paper to the stall. Oh, if a dog approaches you, pick up a stone, and he’ll scurry away. Teach me things so I know. My teacher tells me his goal is to understand the people, in his own home country. Maggie tells me to try not to understand because I never will. And strangely, I find hope.

Sometimes, I just need to be told I am brave. I led the anciano to her home in the night with her hand in mine, misshapen knuckles clenched to find even steps. My madre prayed, “Si senor, si senor.” I didn’t find it odd. Here, no pavement is even and every street is cracked. Men sell bread at 4 in the morning over an intercom. The streets, the venders, they call my name. The papas don’t got mamas, and the hijos don’t got papas. Papa looks in the room, the empty cuarto. And my mother, her son, he died from cancer in his blood. Blood red eyes go with the water that is no good. I itch. The dust floats here.

I got on the bus this morning with 25 cents to ride across the city. And everyone honks here like it will dissipate the traffic. Trash thrown over every bridge like compost. Backpack in front, I will never forget that rule para protegir. My brother, mi hermano, protect me at the discoteque. They say technology saps life. Hardly believe it till you have none. Nothingness. All they drink is rum, like sweet, lethal rum. I can’t say I like it much. Dilute it with water. Soldiers, boys, dance, dance, dance. Soliders here carry machetes. All hail the Sandinistas. Make room, make way. There is a way that leads to death. Walk on. I am going to bed with dirty feet.

Las mujeras venden sus cuerpos. I work to find love. I labor to know goodness in this place. Children chained in the storefront like dogs. She never lets me take her picture. Age 7: sufferer of severe low self-esteem. Scarlette, don’t throw rocks at the small girls. They didn’t mean to steal. If someone tries to break in your window, bang back. Tamara hugs her mother on market day, the same mother that sold her. Shirli, age 9, asks me to pray for her father que es un alcoholismo. I am begging to find You here. And then, smells of smoke, soft like stars rise in the sky.

I cry much of the night.