The American Dreamer

My earliest memories consist of sitting on a cold, cemented floor next to a windowed door, as I sobbed. That was because I had regurgitated my breakfast due to its contamination of a malignant bacteria.

Then, like a damaged recorder, the memory skips to my four year old self swinging on a hammock, focused on trying to swing higher and higher only to have the air shatter, and shocking me back to reality with the deafening sounds of gunshots and the frightened voice of a relative telling me to go inside.

At the time, I was so cocooned in a layer of innocence and naivety that I did not know I was living in a dangerous world. “'Ten percent or less [murders] are investigated and the rest are just forgotten for whatever reason,”[ Dr. Vladimir Nunez] says simply. 'No one can give exact statistics on how many are killed by gangs.'( Rob Crilly, The Telegraph)” Crime in Honduras has only escalated over the years, so much that a census is either too dangerous or too unimportant to conduct. Honduras holds the unwanted title of Murder Capital of The World since 2011. It has become the deadliest country in the world outside a war zone. In 2012, it suffered 90 killings per 100,000 people.

While poverty has long been a cause, violence and corruption in the government have been the number one reasons people flee.

In 2001, my father was diagnosed with cancer. Due to our financial situation, I lost my father at age two. As a young widow with three daughters, my mother sold almost everything and left to pursue the chance at a better life; the American dream.

Three years later, my mother was able to gather enough money to send for her children. As I sat on the bus seat, I remember hanging on to my older sister and waiting for the bus to start moving. At that moment, two men boarded the bus; one sat behind the driver, and the other sat on the seat across from his companion. My sister, along with everyone on the bus, became very silent and tense. I could not comprehend the sudden change in the atmosphere. Months later, I was told that those men were part of a dangerous gang. They were collecting taxes from owners of small businesses and they were hunting someone who had been brave, or perhaps dumb, enough to refuse them.

Growing up with my family's constant murmur of old friends and neighbors whose lives ended because they spoke out against or turned in a member of a gang, and the actions the government of Honduras has taken in response to the issues of their people, are what fed my desire to pursue a career that would give me a chance to help the voiceless— the vulnerable and powerless whose only goal is to survive the day's obstacles.