Personal Narrative: My Small Town In El Salvador

My family and I originate from a small town in El Salvador, called Sesori. For many years, this small town has been infested by a massive gang called MS-13. None the less, I am still proud of where I come from, because it made me who I am and has shaped my mentally on life. I was 10 years old when the metal door banged open. My mother, used to the commotion, did not budge. My brother, three neighborhood boys, and I chased each other around the house pretending to be super heroes. My mother was holding a child I did not know, nor bothered to ask. This was because I was used to my mother’s natural hospitality in our home. We lived in El Salvador, while my father lived in the United States working. As we were preparing to bolt out the door, my mother suddenly stops us and rapidly locks the door after hearing an unfamiliar sound of a car engine on our street. She picks up the phone, turns to kids and whispers “Do not go home just yet. You kids can play longer, I’ll call your parents to pick you guys up” as she begins to dial numbers with a worried face.

One by one, the boys’ parents came to pick them up. Mango, the nickname we gave to the smallest child, was the last to go. Only his father came to pick him up. For the first time his mother, who sold fireworks, did not show. That night I pretended to sleep as I wondered why my mom was crying under her pillow. That was when I knew something was wrong with Mango and his family. A few weeks passed by and news soon came out that Mango’s mother Rosa, was back in town. I snuck out of my house in attempts to see Mango. When I arrived at his house, he slowly opened the door for me and I saw Rosa sitting on the rocking chair. My heart breaks as I see the scars stretching from her left shoulder to her