An Account of the Nicaraguan Revolution :: Free Essays Online

An Account of the Nicaraguan Revolution 1. Augusto Cesar Guerra's dark eyes suddenly lose the cordial and pragmatic aspect they had sustained during the initial minutes of our conversation. His gaze then slowly shifts from my own eyes to the ceiling and, not being fixed on a specific point, it begins to drift, seemingly toward a region by far removed from the present place and time. 2. â€Å"So you want to know about the Revolution,† he utters as if from a distance, his appearance acquiring a thoughtful expression that unveils a man who, asked to recall unsettling events, is forced to evoke the pain caused by wounds healed long before. 3. Guerra then becomes silent, apparently overwhelmed by his memories, and I fix my stare upon him: I notice a bronzed complexion despite the recent Washington, D.C winter, which he's endured in its entirety; a thick body defied by a slim face, motionless beneath dark, black hair, cut somewhat short yet curling amply on the top of his head; a dense beard stemming from the sideburns that leaves uncovered only the top of his cheeks, which are made to protrude somewhat by the bones beneath the fairly darkened skin. As I stare at the man in front of me, I can't help but think of the mix of the races that, Centuries before, created the essence of our Continent: a blend between the European Southerners, already permanently touched by the Mediterranean sun, and a Civilization of candid primitives who welcomed their guests without knowing their own benevolence would cause the downfall of their gods and their ways. I then look around me, notice the frames hanging on the wall of El Tamarindo, an Adams Morgan Salvadorean restaurant, and, like Guerra, am taken elsewhere: I see immense Churches, modeled after those in Spain and towering from the center of a village â€Å"plaza† frequented by the short descendants of the great tribes; a fisherman in a canoe built out of rotting wood whose smile reveals a wise and ageless simplicity; the ancient designs carefully worked upon the fine cloth of a hammock; the rich fruits that are unique to our soil; the Caribbean's crystalline blue and emerald serenity; all visions that rekindle the element of a previous life that I suspect most of us who have migrated from the South are at some point forced to relinquish. An Account of the Nicaraguan Revolution :: Free Essays Online An Account of the Nicaraguan Revolution 1. Augusto Cesar Guerra's dark eyes suddenly lose the cordial and pragmatic aspect they had sustained during the initial minutes of our conversation. His gaze then slowly shifts from my own eyes to the ceiling and, not being fixed on a specific point, it begins to drift, seemingly toward a region by far removed from the present place and time. 2. â€Å"So you want to know about the Revolution,† he utters as if from a distance, his appearance acquiring a thoughtful expression that unveils a man who, asked to recall unsettling events, is forced to evoke the pain caused by wounds healed long before. 3. Guerra then becomes silent, apparently overwhelmed by his memories, and I fix my stare upon him: I notice a bronzed complexion despite the recent Washington, D.C winter, which he's endured in its entirety; a thick body defied by a slim face, motionless beneath dark, black hair, cut somewhat short yet curling amply on the top of his head; a dense beard stemming from the sideburns that leaves uncovered only the top of his cheeks, which are made to protrude somewhat by the bones beneath the fairly darkened skin. As I stare at the man in front of me, I can't help but think of the mix of the races that, Centuries before, created the essence of our Continent: a blend between the European Southerners, already permanently touched by the Mediterranean sun, and a Civilization of candid primitives who welcomed their guests without knowing their own benevolence would cause the downfall of their gods and their ways. I then look around me, notice the frames hanging on the wall of El Tamarindo, an Adams Morgan Salvadorean restaurant, and, like Guerra, am taken elsewhere: I see immense Churches, modeled after those in Spain and towering from the center of a village â€Å"plaza† frequented by the short descendants of the great tribes; a fisherman in a canoe built out of rotting wood whose smile reveals a wise and ageless simplicity; the ancient designs carefully worked upon the fine cloth of a hammock; the rich fruits that are unique to our soil; the Caribbean's crystalline blue and emerald serenity; all visions that rekindle the element of a previous life that I suspect most of us who have migrated from the South are at some point forced to relinquish.