Listen to the Bullet Hole

Thinking back to that day in Guatemala—I remember I struggled on the dirt road for what seemed like miles; the hot sun was incessantly beating me with its unforgiving rays. I began to fathom the reality of a human who endures this heat and this walk to the only school around. It stands alone within over a 60-mile radius.

The last stop on this path was a bit unsettling, but I never was one to be scared for long. I had just been accosted in Nicaragua and chased down with machetes: perhaps for money, perhaps for sex, perhaps for both. But I was now in Guatemala—a new place, a new vibe, a new me.

Continuing on this treacherous walk, I began to feel empathy for those who had accosted me a few countries south—wondering how did they get there. Why am I so "lucky" to have been a soul placed into a body that happened to be born in the United States? Somewhere within my gratitude I felt lucky yet guilty—as if I didn't deserve this superior gift that someone had given me. And then it dawned on me—I don't even know who to thank for this gift—that loaded more guilt to the pile.

Then suddenly, somewhere between the guilt and my reflex, I stumbled upon bottled and sealed water (that's good timing considering the mirage I just saw a few steps back). I pull out a meager amount in quetzal, which actually happened to be a significant portion of my current U.S. balance sheet. I hastily grabbed the bottle, no mind to those around me, focused and blissfully thankful.

I don't know if there is a stronger feeling... until... until it gets taken away. With a blink of the eye, the bottle had been ripped from my grip and put into the claws of another. This felt so barbaric, so backwards, so... right.

Then my logical mind joined into the scene and I saw how awful, how rude, how selfish a person could be. I looked at her with disgust and anger, yet my mind wouldn't allow myself to seek revenge. There was never a thought to take back what was mine and abrasively push the old lady away.

I was fuming through her presumptuous prejudice. I was seriously amazed about how damaging an incorrect judgement could be. She had to have thought that because I was a tourist, I was better off then her. Her actions screamed out—that because I was "American," I had more and was entitled to less. Maybe she was right. Maybe I am entitled to less because I have more—that would explain all the guilt.

Or maybe another like her had planted a seed in my head, miles back, and now it was being watered for growth by this woman.

This deep-rooted doubt mimics defeat, but came into being by acquiring a selfless and perceptive paradigm to analyze others' words.

I entered Nicaragua with the heart to help the less-developed world, to do things. I flew away through the turbulence with a conviction to understand, to listen.

I was contemplating what I had learned. I painstakingly chalked it up to be a lesson on innate human selfishness and necessity. But looking back, I don't see it as so.

Years later, I see this event as heavy as in the moment it happened.

Epiphanic bullets are always shot in an individual's direction—the world is trying to tell you something. When you experience something that puts a hole straight through you, it's difficult to explain to another. The words just don't quite come out as spectacular as they seemed before they made it to your flopping tongue.

Maybe that's when we need to pay attention the most. When we clearly are no longer meant to be the vessel of a lesson, we can be sure that this one was for us. That was that moment. That is this moment. Just listen.