Summer in Nicaragua

It bothered me because I could not stay. I was an American glutton, feeding on their third-world lifestyles; drinking in their tattered clothes, muddy feet, bloated bellies. I was an observer, an outsider. I gave of my time and resources so I could take from their smiles of gratitude – easing the guilt that plagued my conscience. I had to alleviate their pain in order to negate my own. But I did not give myself. I did not sit with them in the quiet of the afternoon to watch the sun sink over the rio coco. I did not dance to their songs. I did not share in their stories. My body was there in the jungle but my mind was sitting in a Starbucks in California, sipping a venti mocha. It bothered me because I did not want to stay.