The Idea of an Essay, Volume 3

Narrative & Memoir 75 purchased a melon, two papayas, and two mangos, and then we were off into the bedlam once more. We trekked four more miles through the city until we finally made it outside. Here, we saw the elaborate mansions of the rich, homes that even most Americans would envy. Not far past these was the tall, rusted archway that opened up to Milagro. The red dirt path powdered beneath my treading feet through the large archway. Bienvenidos a el Milagro de Dios, it read. Translation: “Welcome to theMiracle of God.” Far from it, I thought. One-roomed, makeshift slums scattered as far as I could see. The pathway took me past sites I wasn’t ready to witness. Mounds of trash speckled the community. Naked children scampered about, their skin stretched over exposed ribs. Barrels of green, mosquito- infested drinking water stood outside some of the “homes” – I hesitate even calling them that. I had been on overseas mission trips before, but this was the first time I was face-to-face with such overwhelming poverty and suffering. As we passed, Salvadoran men and women examined us. They were not accustomed to seeing a group of white people marching through their community. Their expressions were neither joyful nor sorrowful. Instead, they were neutral and stern. I was an outsider, and I was scared. I felt unwelcome and distant from these people, and I wanted to leave. But I knew I had no other choice, so I reluctantly continued to walk. Once we were in Milagro, I was thankful I was no longer being rushed. I focused on the rhythmic beat of our muffled steps against the dirt path. Nothing was said, as we were all fixed on the scenes before us. We continued in silence until our group leader stopped us outside of one particular home. Four long and thin tree limbs stuck out of the ground supporting a square piece of aluminum sheet metal. Scraps of metal, trash, and wood wove together to construct the walls like a crude puzzle. “Rosa!” he called – then silence. “Rosa!” he bellowed once more. I stood back and watched as an aged Salvadoran woman emerged from the home. She stood there gazing at us without moving. This made me even more uneasy than I already was. I shuffled one step back in the loose dirt. She reached into her shirt pocket, pulled out a pair of thin-framed glasses, and put them on.