“Me llamo Daniel. Tengo cuarenta y dos años. Mi apodo es Frijolito.”

I was back in Guatemala and was ready to spout off my greeting to the members of The Rhino’s. I bounced lightly on the spongy turf of the field, eager to play some futbol, but even more eager to see the boys.

One by one The Rhino’s marched in. A person from my old neck of the woods may have crassly said “they all look the same.” Short and skinny bodies made their backpacks all seemed oversized. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, and big smiles accentuated their big white teeth (and some pretty adorable dimples too.) They all seemed to have a confident bounce in their step as they came over and gave us all the same simple not-so-secret handshake.

Truthfully, to me the boys all did look the same… It’s ok. I can say that. They all looked like me when I was a kid. It is evident that the boys and I share much of the same Mayan blood. One of the boys and I even share the same apodo… at least until they renamed me on day one.

When I was little the apodo affectionately given to me by my family was Frijolito. The typical beans that Guatemalans eat are small and dark… so the nickname “little bean” was a good fit.

We weren’t wealthy, but we were well off enough for my mom to put me in private school, piano lessons, and recreational sports. Thus in many of my social settings I was often smaller and usually darker than my mostly white friend group.

The other Frijolito was a runt even by this village’s standards. I didn’t visit his home, but if he is like 90% of the people that live in his village then I can give an accurate description. His entire family all share one small room of a tiny “house.” They do have some basic necessities. His water is turned on briefly by the municipality once a day… enough to fill up a plastic tub. There’s enough water in the tub to use for a light sponge bath, to scrub some clothes with, and to do some simple cooking with. There is a single lightbulb in their room that can be turned on for a little while each night. There are a couple of skinny chickens walking around the yard. A wood fire sends smoke rising up in the middle of the yard; his grandmother is cooking a simple meal of tortillas and beans.

He has no refrigerator. He has no pantry stocked with food. His dad isn’t around. The social economics of the area is such that dad is away from the village working the fields for a meager salary. So the village is filled with mothers, grandmothers, and children… but not many dads. Unless something changes, Frijolito is likely to end up dropping out of the soccer academy and out of school to go work the fields like his dad. Breaking the cycle is really hard to do.

But there is hope for Frijolito.

I’m a bit big to be called that now. By Guatemalan standards, I’m downright massive (except for my calves.) So the boys decided Frijolito would no longer be an appropriate name for me. Frijolon was the new name they gave me instead.

Big Bean… three times the size of Frijolito… but still a bean. Say “Frijolon” out loud and emphasize the last syllable “lon” and you’ll sense just how big of a deal this bean is now.

So here’s what’s up. Frijolito has no idea how broken his home life is. He has no comprehension of the generational trauma he has inherited. He has no idea of how the absence of his father will leave him with wounds he will possibly nurse for his entire life. He has no idea of the sacrifices his mother made to help him succeed in life. He has no idea how hard he will have to fight just to consistently believe that there are people in his life that really do love him. He has no idea just how much he needs community to help care for him.

Frijolon does. Frijolon knows he is kind of broken, and often times he is ok with that. He knows his brokeness helps him give and love and serve others in a special way. He knows he is doing more than just ok. He knows he is breaking the cycle.

“Me llamo Daniel. Tengo quarenta y dos años. Mi apodo es Frijolon.”