Seatbelts and Pick-Up Trucks

                When driving in Honduras, there are a couple rules that don’t apply here as they do in the States. There are no seatbelt laws for the back seats, only the front two seats need seatbelts. If there is some law that says there needs to be seatbelts, than I can guarantee that there are very few people who follow it. There are very few cars that actually have seatbelts in the back of the car that work; some cars might not have them built in at all. This sounds super dangerous and maybe it is, but I don’t think so. I haven’t seen a difference in accidents with seatbelts versus accidents without them. But I’m not an expert.

I remember when I first came to Honduras, I was surprised that there were no seatbelts but I was also happy. Seatbelts are so uncomfortable and not having to wear them was awesome. I never really thought about the danger and I can’t recall a time when we’ve needed seatbelts in the back for protection or anything. We’ve gotten along fine without seatbelts, no problems. It made longer trips more comfortable because you could sit normally without something jabbing into your neck, waist, or chest. We could sleep easier too.

Another rule that’s different that I enjoyed the most about driving here is riding in the back of a pick-up truck. In the States, apparently, you aren’t allowed to ride in the back of a pick-up, which is weird to me because what’s the point of having it then if you can’t carry more people? But I guess it is a bit more dangerous. It’s also a lot more fun though. My siblings and I always loved riding in the back of the truck. We sat on the edges most of the time or stood up at the front, always holding on though. We’d sit on the inside of the edges if it was on the highway between Zambrano and another village called San Francisco. We never rode in the back in the city, it was dangerous. We had heard of stories of people getting hurt by being in the back of a truck and such, but we were careful and the situations that were described to us didn’t usually apply to our situation. For example, one person told us that his truck was full of people and he hit a bump, someone apparently fell out and got extremely hurt, for us though, our truck was never that full. Either way, even though it was “dangerous” it was a lot of fun.

In the back of the truck, my sisters and I would sing songs, make jokes, wave to people; occasionally we made faces at people who stared at us for too long but mom told us to stop that. It was a lot of fun. The wind in our hair, it felt like we were flying in a way. My best friend had a big white pick-up and it had bars all around the edges, so we could stand on all sides without fear of falling out, even if you didn’t hold on to those edges. That was awesome because we would play games where you couldn’t touch the edges or you couldn’t fall down or you were out. It might be dangerous but it was an amazing experience. I loved riding in the back of the truck.

There are several weird things about Honduran driving but I mainly wanted to stress these two things because people think it’s so dangerous. I don’t think it’s as dangerous as people make it out to be, it’s actually fun and more comfortable sometimes. When driving in Honduras, don’t be scared to not have a seatbelt and don’t be afraid to ride in the back of a pick-up. It’s a lot of fun and you’d be missing out if you stayed in your “comfort zone.”

Goodbye, until next time.  

Discrimination

Discrimination. This is always a hard topic to discuss because people take it the wrong way. So, before we begin this blog post, I’m not trying to offend anyone; I am merely telling a story of discrimination from my personal experience. Discrimination is defined as “the unjust or prejudicial treatment of different categories of people, especially on the grounds of race, age, or sex.” Here I’ll be discussing a true story about the discrimination of race.

                If you’ve read my previous blog posts then you know I moved to Honduras from the United States when I was ten. I am a white, blue eyed, brown-blondish hair, freckled, short (about 5’4’’-ish), and thin, girl. Many people don’t think that white people can be discriminated; and I’m sorry if saying I’m white is racist but I’m not going into the topic of whether or not there is race or whatever. I am only telling my story. When I moved here I was stared at for the color of my skin, nothing else. I was looked at as if I was a new exhibit in the zoo and it was so weird. I have never been stared at in the States because we’re told since we are young that staring is rude. In Honduras, no one tells their kids not to stare, they join in. No matter where I went, people would openly stare. Sometimes you might see a mouth or two open wide in shock if you’re lucky. It’s such a weird feeling to be stared at like that. It’s not like we were little green people from Mars or something. On top of that there are quite a few white, blue-eyed, blonde-haired, Hondurans and they didn’t get stared at. Somehow people would just know that we were gringos (Americans).

                Being white also opened doors to the jacked-up prices at street vendor’s tables or mechanics shops. People apparently think that we’re walking ATMs because we’re white. We’ve had to ask our Honduran friends sometimes to go and ask for the price of such-and-such thing so we wouldn’t get the gringo price. I think I dislike this more than I dislike being stared at. I am not rich, not even close. We’re a missionary family and we might not be poor but we don’t walk around with money filling up our jean pockets. I don’t like when people assume I’m rich because I’m white. It’s not fair and there is no reasoning behind it. It’s especially hard when I’m here with my family to help people and people expect us to just dish out money because we’re white and apparently that’s what we do. I’m not angry because of this, it just stinks to be treated differently because I’m white and white equals money.

                Thankfully we were never persecuted for being white; we just weren’t treated the same way as Hondurans treated each other. I dislike it when people don’t think that white people are also discriminated. Yes, the black peoples have been treated awfully for a very, very long time. I’m horrified by what happens to this people group when they are the same as white people. They shouldn’t be discriminated because of the color of their skin and I hate hearing about another time when someone was discriminating someone else because he/she was black. However, I also dislike when now, when someone says that so-and-so was discriminated we assume that person was black and the person discriminating was white. That isn’t always the case. Or when someone is racist, he/she is going to be white. The reason why I’m saying the ‘colors’ that people are in this post is because that’s the way I’m going to describe someone. In Honduras, if you are white you’re called: chele, gringo, blanco, all words that mean white. When someone is black they are called negro (black), Chinese-looking/Asians are called chino or asiatico or sometimes amarillo (yellow), brown or what would be typical Honduran would be called trigueño (translated corn color, I always assumed it meant brownish) or indígeno (indigenous). Either way, I like how in Honduras people call you by what you look like. In the States all of these terms would be considered racist or rude. Here, it’s a way of describing a person. In my mind it makes sense, if you’re telling your friend about that guy in the movie who was white, black, brown, purple even, you’re going to say his color.

                In conclusion, it sucks to be discriminated but by just telling a person that, “He was white,” does not make what you said wrong. If I was to treat you differently because of that fact, then it would be wrong. We can’t be ‘colorblind’ to what’s going on. We also can’t get angry at people for saying the color of your skin. If you’re white then gosh darn it, that’s how people should be able to describe you. They shouldn’t have to avoid the topic of what color or ethnicity you are because it’s considered racist or discriminatory. Yes, I get treated differently because of my skin color but you know what, my friends call me gringa or they describe me starting with, “she’s white” or something along those lines. I’m white and that’s fine to call me such, to treat me differently because I’m white is not. If we want the problem of discrimination to go away, I believe we need to recognize that people look differently from us and that’s perfectly okay. We need to treat people all the same, we shouldn’t have to side-step differences in appearance because it’s “racist.” I should be able to describe a black person as such and a white person as such without the fear of being called racist. I won’t treat any person differently because their appearance is not the same as mine. I think this would be the best way to rid ourselves of racial discrimination. Becoming ‘colorblind’ won’t help. Calling people racists because they say he/she was black, white, pink, or purple won’t help. Complaining about the problem and not doing anything about it won’t help. Finally, saying that because I am blank color I’m treated worse than blank color won’t help. You want to help? Notice the problem and strive to treat people fairly and don’t become ‘colorblind.’

                Goodbye, until next time! 

The Best Part of Being an MK

The best part of being an MK is being able to have a story that is unique. There are very few others who share this same title, and those that do don’t have the same background. Some people have lived in five other countries, others have lived in three, others are MKs in their passport country, and still others have lived longer than I have in Honduras, others less. No matter what, your MK story is yours. The only people who come close to having the same story are your family members, but my view on being an MK is going to differ from that of my little brother.

                I’ve always loved the idea of being unique. When I think of being unique, I think of myself as special. I guess that’s the point but still, I love being unique. Thus, it makes it all the more wonderful to be a MK. I’m unique for just being me, but now I’m unique because of where I am and why. When people ask where I’m from I take a deep breath and say, “Well I was born in Texas, raised in Connecticut and moved to Honduras when I was ten.” Even though it might be bother sometimes to have to explain that, I secretly like it because it makes a great conversation starter. I don’t know, I just find it so cool to be able to call myself an MK. There’s a certain thrill to saying it: I’m an MK.

                This is a short blog post but I’ve been out of inspiration the past few weeks, to be honest. Plus, I figured I had already given the worst part of being an MK, it was time to give the best part of being an MK. So, I hope you enjoy this little blog post!

                Goodbye, until next time!