Stella Nichols

   For the most part, my emotional atmosphere has been stable. I did not grow up in a large house or in the most extravagant part of the city, but my parents did what was necessary to make ends meet. I was raised in a predominantly Catholic Hispanic, blue-collar neighborhood on the Southside of Chicago. The Hispanic culture is very family-oriented. Hence, for the first fifteen years of my life, I lived in a small apartment home with my parents, sister, grandmother, two aunts, uncle, and three cousins. Looking back, I see that we lived in overcrowded conditions. During all those years, however, it was the time of my life. I feel sorry for anyone who hasn't had similar experiences.
   My most dramatic childhood memories consist of my bittersweet time in Guatemala, my mother's country or origin. I remember seeing the indigenous Mayan girls, magnificently dressed in brilliant colors, asking me if I wanted my hair braided for 2 quetzales (26 cents in the United States). For a moment in time, until they were undone from showering, I had strands of string of those same vivid colors wrapped in my hair. I felt beautiful. I felt like I was home.
   I spent a great deal of time there in the early and mid 1990s, which was a tumultuous time for this country. A violent civil war lasting over three decades was finally coming to a sanguinary end, and I was witnessing it at the absorbent age of five. Government armed forces were accountable for the majority of the 200,000 people killed. Political incongruities, exploitation of the poor, and genocide all seemed so elementary through the eyes of a five year old. I could not process the reason for this unnecessary scrimmage.
   Thirteen years later, I now have a much better understanding of the events that took place in that tiny Central American country that I call my second home. Yet, my simple mind frame hasn't changed much from when I was five. I still cannot understand why this war had to happen. But it did, and the oppressed had no say. The end of the war did not mean better days for Guatemala. There has been minimal improvement toward protecting human rights. Neighborhoods meant to raise families are barricaded with huge gates, gang members covered in tattoos roam the streets ominously, multitudes of garbage carelessly fill the streets, and road vendors can be found on every corner in hopes of making enough money to eat a meal. My upbringing in Guatemala has played the most vital role in choosing what I want to do for the rest of my life. Being a female journalist that approaches issues from the subjugated point-of-view is not something that will be welcomed in Central America.
 

~By Stella Nichols