Dear Children of the Privileged,

There you are, standing fierce,

Your mind ringing with the sounds of marimbas and maracas,

The white and blue of your flag reflected on your face as you proudly represent your country.

Your veins boil with the red passion of blood infused with the sweet water of the cocibolca

And you burn with the true love for your nation.

But for a second,

Oh the fatal second!

You stop.

And you wonder, what is your country?

The distraught.

The hungry.

The dying.

The arid land.

The undrinkable water of the xolotlan.

The corrupt officials.

The police officers who for a drink and a burger let criminals go,

For the burst of energy under the sun is more important than national security

If there were any secrets to spill, how easily could they be bought?

And who are you?

Are you the sun beaten, hardened faces?

The calloused hands?

The sore feet?

Who are you?

The sweat covered brow of the man working the land?

The soot on the apron of the lady making tortillas at the side of the road?

Who are you?

The child lugging water, school forgotten,

For survival is more important than derivatives and integrals.

Not that the opportunity for learning such terms would be presented,

The teacher's chair occupied by a man who barely covered the fourth grade.

But who are you?

Sitting there in your privilege

The world laid at your feet

Your pretty face protected from the sun

And who am I?

Standing here in my privilege

Dainty in my security

Traveling an easy path on the backs of those who do not have as much as I do

For the world is extremely competitive

Telling you that to succeed you must destroy

Who am I to be complaining about your privilege?

To be asking you to look down at those who crawl through the dust

Who am I to ask you to lower your hand to them?

To pick them up from where they lay

Who am I?

My face is not damaged by the sun,

My skin is soft,

My hands are not calloused by hard work,

Instead they are white and dainty,

Unmarked by my easy life.

My feet are covered.

I do not walk miles upon miles for nourishment and support.

I am not covered in sweat and my fingernails do not carry pieces of the earth.

I cook not as a livelihood but for fun.

Yet, my heart aches

And it burns and my own blood rejects me.

For it knows that I am proud of appearances,

That my own heritage demands more of me than I give.

For my nation is small and sickly

And in my effort, I must hold the cure.

But see, I can only do so much

Before my body, not used to hard work, gives

And even then, I must labor.

For a new world,

A new tomorrow.

Not only for the children of my own land,

Not only for the men and women who tread the paths of the momotombo,

Not only for the strong willed nicas that the motherland will birth,

But for every child in this world who is suffering

Who lacks so much

While I have everything.

And when my hands are useless,

And my vision poor,

My brain slow and my words slurred,

I will love.

And in my love, I will hold the cure

   -one of the lucky few