Those metal earrings

Everyone has a story. Pages upon pages of scribed experiences, thoughts, emotions. When you meet someone, you take the first impression as the final ultimatum. I give verdicts by the hour, judging every stranger and his/her intentions, assuming the worst and hoping the least. I stepped out of the bus onto a dirt road. The transportation system stopped and refused to take passengers any farther. The buildings lost their urban finesse, the people ditched their suits for basic rags, and the air ceased to smell like baked bread and began to take on the smell of wet dog.
"Mother, this place is ratchet," I said with disgust.
"Daughter, this place is my home," my mom refuted. "We didn't all come from the privileged north side."
I was in the middle of southern Bogota. I could not believe that this was the same city with my favorite mall, my nice gated community, and my favorite restaurant. The disparity between the northern and southern parts of Bogota was not only blatant but was almost designed. As we walked toward my supposed great great second aunt twice removed's house, I examined the slovens and their filthy lifestyles, giving them each a name, a story, and a judgement. My number one victim was this teenage boy about my age who was sitting on his porch drinking a beer. Wow, that is so illegal. Get up and do something instead of sitting there and staring, I thought to myself. I continued by making my visit to my aunt's house with a sour attitude and with no intention of lightening up. When I returned home that night, I opened up my purse and panicked when I realized that $50 were missing. I ran frantically to my mom's room and began to accuse all of the scum of the south of stealing my money. She handed me a bag with earrings and $50.
"The $50, Adriano, your cousin, he saw you drop them yesterday. He wanted to give them back. The earrings, he wanted to wish you a happy birthday. He made them. It's what he's been doing with his spare time ever since his dad died."
The kid sitting across the road on the dirt porch chugging down a beer because he just lost his father. Adriano. A distant cousin of mine. Everything but a crook.
Everyone has a story. Pages upon pages that one cannot see with a simple glance. I now read into the pages of those around me before making my judgement. And now, I wonder, what they read in mine.

Cari Bonilla
Staff Editor
Bellaire HS
Bellaire, TX