Memoir Writing

by Jorge Nunez

It was 6 in the morning on a 4th of July; I was a scared 11 years old boy whose life would change forever. My family loaded my grandparents’ car with suitcases that contained our most valuable belongings. As we drove through the tunnel of La Guaira Highway I abandoned my entire life on the other side of the mountain. Another six souls have been deserted in the valley of Caracas, Venezuela.

Mountains divided the city from the coast where Maiquetia International Airport is located. Caracas and the seashore are both linked by a set of twin tubes that allow for double lane traffic to flow in each tunnel. The tunnels have been constructed by my great grandfather, a renowned engineer. Looking back, I like to think that my ancestors paved a path towards my exodus to America, the land of freedom and equal opportunity. Before entering the tunnel, one is looked at by a horrific set of murals that depict a face: a terrifying face with enough power to destroy capitalism, enough power to starve a population, enough power to create the inflation and murder capital of the world. His face was painted in red, a color found in the national flag that symbolizes the blood of those who fought for Independence from Spain, a color that now represents failed socialism. His name was Hugo Chavez, currently dead and replaced by a careless dictator, a former Cuban bus driver named Nicolas Maduro. The power of these selfish dictators are to blame for the relocation of my life — for the day I left Venezuela.

My brothers and I held our breath as we drove through the tunnel. Halfway through, I realized the challenge was nearly impossible, but a hopeful light beamed at the end of the passage as if my future remained positive. Democracy, safety, great education and a superior quality of life was found on the other side of the mountain.

After leaving behind the narrow tunnel, we were relieved by the alluring views of the ocean. This sight contrasted by the attractive mountains that surround the highway. Shortly after, my family arrived at the airport. My grandparents followed us inside to say their final goodbye. Mixed emotions rushed throughout my body.  It was the last time I stood close to my family, my friends and my beautiful homeland.

Without knowing the fate of my future, the airplane took off. As the mountains faded away into the endless ocean, I questioned my integration into an American society. I worried whether my English was good enough or if my values as a Venezuelan would be accepted in America.

Moving to the United States has been the hardest and most challenging process of my life, but reflecting on the decision we made; I have no regrets. Even though my family was fortunate enough to have wealth in Venezuela, we still would have lived a hard, oppressive lifestyle if we didn’t flee the country. After moving to America, Venezuela’s political situation has worsened. In this present date, Venezuela’s inflation has taken a toll in everyday life. Due to a lack of raw materials, people don’t have access to food. Today, Caracas is considered the murder capital of the world, with a daily murder rate of over 80 people per day. With my transition to the United States, I’ve learned to live a life where I am grateful for the things that  people take for granted. It has been my greatest learning experience.