Every society has a cultural expression for childhood fear. In the United States of America, a land of abundance, vast homes, and suburban distance, the isolation manifests itself in the form of monsters. These monster do not lurk in the woods, the roof, or the basement. Rather, these insidious fiends dwell in the vacant spaces that we reserve for our bloated quantity of non-essential material possessions: the closet, under the bed. At night, after you parents have left and the clouds have strangled any glimpse of light out of the moon, you can hear the creepy critters scattering about. You pull the sheet up and over your head, but to no avail. The monster can hear you breathing. And, more disturbingly, you can hear them breathing.
Like the IPCC, I may lack some peer-reviewed scientific support for my conclusions, but these monsters are the stuff of fantasy. Despite my insistence that my father inspect the empty suitcases in my closet night after night, no gremlin ever emerged. Yet the fear I felt in my childhood was real; it gripped me.
In Nicaragua, the children fear a more tangible menace. Upon the rat-a-tat of a snare drum, shrieks feel the streets as toddlers run indoor to cower inside locked bathrooms. The drumming reaches a frenetic beat, and then the monster presents him or herself. Adorned in an elaborate mask and 18th century colonial attire, accompanied by a wide headed and body-less monster playing the snare, the dreaded gigantona steps into view.
I fear only for the fear of Junito. And how this fear may affect his career at Real Madrid. (more…)