Mirrors & Managua

Let me introduce you to myself, I think it is only fair. A story is not complete without knowledge about the storyteller and their perspective. My name is Jonathan Gill, but those who know me usually call me Jon at worst, and a silly nickname that naturally develops at best. I grew up an only child, an imaginative young lad, and a passion to pursue my interests rather than just think about them. I never learn the “easy” way (I don’t believe; I am a skeptic) and always the “hard” way (I call it the only authentic way: through personal experience).I have had many experiences throughout my life, but the one I wanted to highlight was that at the age of 17 I graduated high school and jumped on a plane to Parris Island, SC to become a United States Marine. I wanted brotherhood (as I was an only child) and I wanted to serve in a way that was perceived as honorable by my peers — I wanted to be proud of what I was doing with my life, and many things around me from TV commercials and subtle (and many times overt) sociocultural motivators (“Thank you for your service.”) told me that this was one way to find both. While I had many experiences that developed me into the individual I am today, I found myself in the present moment as a veteran, an Ohio State social work student, and a passenger on a plane flying towards Nicaragua.

I didn’t know Spanish, but I did know that I had been in similar situations before. I had been stationed in Okinawa, Japan for two years, deployed to Afghanistan for 7 months, and moved to a new location frequently with little notice or time to adjust. I would be fine. I might not know the language, but I had dealt with culture shocks and language barriers before, just roll with it was the motto. I had lived out of bags and learned the necessities of travel. I was excited to be someone the other students could rely on when they felt nervous if they were unfamiliar with such things. Little did I know — I would experience the opposite.

Arriving in Managua began out quite strange. When we left the plane there was a place to stand to take your photo and the immigration officials questioned me quite a bit: “What are you here for? — Tourism.”; “Where all are you going? — Managua.”; “What do you do? — I am a student.” All of this with looks of suspicion. I felt awkward. When I asked the others if they had been asked questions they all said no.

When we arrived at our hotel in Managua, Nicaragua, I noticed immediately that the hotel was more like a compound. It has brick walls surrounding it, a thick metal gate that needed to be unlocked from the inside after pressing a buzzer, and had razor wire & electric fences all around it. This was eerily similar to the bases & compounds we lived within when I was in Afghanistan during my time as a Marine. I can recall imagining someone throwing a grenade over the wall, and brushed it off. I felt very on guard and awkward about my initial experience and realized it was making me intensely aware of my military background and national citizenship.

The trip revved up quick and on the  second or third day in Nicaragua we were packing our bags for a three-day home stay in Leon, Nicaragua with one other student and a host family. We were given a lot of freedom, less structure than I was used to in unfamiliar environments (in the military) and I always felt on guard. I was waiting for someone to try and mug me or kidnap me. The first morning we were in Nicaragua we had a history lesson on Nicaragua and I learned that the U.S. Marines had intervened in battles with the local armed forces in the early to mid-1900s. This really added to my awkward identity as a former Marine and now anti-war, pro-peace, veteran social work student. All of this had really had me in an awkward place. I did not want to feel like I was someone ‘alone behind enemy lines’ but the truth of the matter was that is how I began to feel.

 

I didn’t realize how obvious this was to others, or to me, until someone pointed my behavior out to me. I was crippled with fear, of anxiety. I knew most of these were irrational but they were emotional, bodily reactions. Walking down the streets of Leon, unable to speak with my host family, and being completely vulnerable in a land that resembled, and became (to me, subjectively) the streets of Afghanistan again.I have met other veterans who had PTSD. The sound of a backfiring lawn mower would send one of my friends who had split seconds before been casually walking over to where I was sitting behind a garbage container, others to suicide, intense substance abuse, or extremely inappropriate and maladjusted behaviors. I was fine. Sure, I would check each window and door in the house to see if it was locked. Sure, I would always be a little more aware of my surroundings, always on guard. This was healthy to me, I was just more aware and more prepared. No problem!

It wasn’t until this trip that a very important conversation happened where I opened myself up, and reflected. I might have PTSD. The intense, persistent, and crushing anxiety that I felt, noticeably more severe than my fellow college students (who I was be much more prepared then, ready to assist! — or so I had thought) forced me to confront this fact. It has been less than a week and I feel like I have already been through another deployment, and it was another war zone — an internal one.

We sat on the courtyard, now back in Managua, and I broke down in tears. I finally came to terms with an aspect of myself that I had neglected to see, or acknowledge. I did not expect to be this challenged or this rewarded through this experience in Nicaragua. The people I am sharing this trip with have slowly become my brothers and sisters and the those whom I’ve met in Nicaragua as well. The more I learn about the people and culture of Nicaragua, the more I learn about love, of friendship, and of the Family of Humanity that can exist as it does here. These are a people who have a history of physical and economic violence from the place that I call home (and my own personal past lineage of the U.S. Marines) and they saw past that. They saw Me. They say me, and they offered a Mirror, an opportunity, and experience, that allowed me to see Me as well.

To realize that in less than one week all of this has happened does not feel real to me. We have at least a week and a half left here in this beautiful land (despite its gross struggles on many fronts). I truly have no idea what else will arise and what others and I have to learn here together on our journey — but I welcome it with open arms and complete vulnerability, knowing that I have each of these beautiful souls by my side.

 

Love,

Jon (or whatever silly nickname you may have for me)