The Seldom-Mentioned Somoza

Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.
John F. Kennedy


To discuss Nicaraguan history without mentioning the Somoza dynasty is impossible. This family, whose name resides in ignominy, ruled the country for nearly half-a-century as if the land and its inhabitants were their personal property. What’s more, to preserve their power and holdings they ruled Nicaragua with an iron fist.

The legacy of their nearly-fifty-year stewardship endures to this day in the chaos and bitter divisions that characterize Nicaraguan politics.

The names that invariably surface when discussing the clan are those of the generals: Anastasio Somoza García (1896-1956) and Anastasio Somoza Debayle (1925-1980), both supreme commanders of the Guardia Nacional, Nicaragua’s armed forces. Respectively, these men represent the Alpha and the Omega of the regime: they are responsible for its rise and its fall.

In most discussions, however, the third member of the regime is usually omitted. Only Nicaraguans and a cluster of hardcore Latin American historians remember his existence: Luis Somoza Debayle. He was the eldest son and older brother of his fellow dictators. On his sixteenth birthday, as a gift, his father awarded Luis the rank of coronel in the Guardia Nacional. But Luis didn’t inherit the others’ passion for military life. Instead, the world of business, particularly agriculture—in which he had a degree from Louisiana State University—called to him.

Shortly after Luis Somoza completed his college studies he won a seat in the Nicaraguan Congress. At the age of thirty he was elected that body’s president. And when he was thirty-four, in September of 1956, his father, Anastasio Somoza García, was assassinated. The brothers’ held firm in the ensuing challenges to their power. The younger brother, Anastasio Somoza Debayle, already at the head of the Guardia Nacional, reacted forcefully—a foreshadowing of the ferocity that would characterize his tactics twenty years later—to squelch all attempts to remove the family from the throne. The Nicaraguan Congress appointed Luis to fill the remainder of his father’s term; and the following year he was elected president of the republic and served in this position until 1963.

The view historians’ have of Luis Somoza’s presidency is ambivalent: his reign is regarded as a mixture of benevolence and force. But his reputation for recurring to violence arose during the Somoza brothers’ quest to avenge their father’s death. They believed, erroneously, that the assassination had been the product of a widespread conspiracy. As a result, hundreds of Nicaraguans suspected of wishing the dictator’s death were jailed, tortured, and several of them executed.

Although most of the responsibility for the bloodshed during this dark era falls squarely on the shoulders of the younger brother, General Anastasio Somoza Debayle, many of their compatriots claim that Luis Somoza did little, or nothing, to stop his sibling. Nevertheless, there is ample evidence to suggest that Luis was far less inclined to use violence and fear as tools to secure obedience. One episode, I believe, illustrates this. In 1958, a revolutionary group, which included Pedro Joaquín Chamorro, launched an invasion of Nicaragua, inspired by the success Castro was having in the Sierra Maestra, with the expressed purpose of overthrowing Luis Somoza. The operation failed and the rebels were sentenced to nine years in prison; but after serving eighteen months Luis granted them amnesty.

Luis Somoza also passed legislation that suggests that he was a visionary statesman—he understood that his family’s grip on Nicaragua would have to be loosened if they wished to remain influential over time. Before stepping down from the presidency, Luis Somoza signed a law that prohibited family members from succeeding one another in the presidency—a move that reportedly infuriated his younger brother.

When Luis Somoza’s term ended, he maintained a low political profile, preferring instead to devote his energies to watching over the family businesses. During this time, nevertheless, he played a significant buffering role—keeping in check his younger sibling’s inordinate lust for power and wealth.

The elder brother indeed provided a measure of sanity in an otherwise ruthless family dynasty. The following story, I think, indicates this. Luis Somoza built a mansion in what was, at the time, the eastern edge of Managua. He chose a small city block and purchased all the humble homes on it—at a fair price. There was, however, a woman who owned a corner house and refused to sell. Luis Somoza pleaded with her until he realized that his efforts were useless—the woman would never yield. A true dictator would have removed the woman from the lot through intimidating tactics, an improvised law, or by force. But not Luis Somoza. Instead, he built a high red brick fence around the entire block with the wall running alongside the back and one side of the woman’s home. The sight always struck me as surreal: a mansion that resembled a Louisiana plantation and, left outside, on a small corner, a humble adobe home.

Luis Somoza did, indeed, come across as the benevolent face of the dynasty.

He died in 1964, at the age of forty-five, from a heart attack. After his death, his younger brother, Anastasio Somoza Debayle, assumed absolute control of the country, ruling with such lack of compassion that within twelve short years of Luis’s death the rest of the family was on a plane, bound for exile, after a popular uprising overthrew them.

The void left by Luis Somoza’s early death represents one of those historical enigmas that will never be solved. And the essential question is: would he have let go of the family’s stranglehold over Nicaraguan life to allow democracy to take hold in return for the Somozas being allowed to retain a significant portion of their properties?

I choose to believe that Luis was the visionary and that he would’ve placed restraints on his younger brother’s ambitions, an act that, in the end, would’ve saved tens of thousands of lives and avoided a violent revolution.

In the midst of this pointless speculation I offer a personal story: a memorable experience involving Luis Somoza that took place when I was nine-years-old. This tale, in my mind at least, is a small indicator of his warmth and humanity.

My family and I were returning to Los Angeles from visiting relatives in Nicaragua. This was back in the days before direct flights existed between the United States and Managua. Large, four-engine Pan-American Airline planes would make scales in San Salvador and then Guatemala City. There, passengers would board a jet that would take them straight to Los Angeles.

During our stop in San Salvador, as we waited for new passengers to board, I visited the restroom. As I was returning to join my family, somewhat distracted and looking down, a sudden, collosal presence blocked the aisle: a remarkably tall man with an massive, barrel chest. My gaze turned upward and his dark suit made him seem like one of the most daunting obstacles I’d ever encountered.

And then I gasped when I recognized the handsome face. I had seen it often in the newspapers during my visits to Nicaragua: it was the man who only a couple of months before had been President of the Republic. I stood there, awestruck, my mouth agape.

Seeing the state I was in, he smiled—a sincere, warm smile—reached forward, gently placed his right hand on my shoulder, and said, “Con permiso, caballero”—Excuse me, Sir.

With my mouth still wide open, I nodded, stood aside, and allowed Luis Somoza and the three men he was traveling with—who were also dressed in dark suits—to pass by to take their seats toward the rear of the plane. Yes, it was Luis Somoza who, like me, was flying in economy class.

The Death of Alexis Arguello: A Portent of Things to Come in Nicaragua?

(This article was meant to appear in Latismo. But due to a misunderstanding about exclusive rights, it will appear in the next issue of The Panama News instead—and, of course, here.)

‘Before, I thought we all were brothers. I thought the world was a beautiful place. It's a lie. Everyone is selfish. Now I care nothing for the world. It makes me feel selfish to say it, but people made me that way. I hate politics, I hate industry, I hate governments... I hate it ...’
Alexis Arguello, “Adrift In A Sea Of Choices,” Sports Illustrated, October 31, 1985

We are upset. This is a heartbreaking announcement. He was the champion of the poor, an example of forgiveness and reconciliation.
Rosario Murillo, Presidential Spokesperson and wife of Daniel Ortega, President of Nicaragua


On July 1, 2009, at 2:02 a.m., Alexis Arguello, mayor of Managua, capital city of Nicaragua, leaned forward while sitting on the edge of his bed, placed the barrel of his Ceska 9 milimeter revolver against his chest and, holding it with both hands, pulled the trigger with the thumb of his right hand, shooting himself straight through the heart.

That act also shattered the hearts of every Nicaraguan—including those of the nearly 300,000 Americans of Nicaraguan ancestry who live in the United States.

But Alexis Arguello’s command over the collective imagination of his compatriots was not due to his role as a politician in the Sandinista party. In fact, many Nicaraguans remain bewildered as to why he converted to a cause he once opposed and fought against—literally—as a member of the Contras.

The reason Arguello’s suicide crushed the spirits of his fellow Nicaraguans—as well as of millions of boxing fans—is because he was a living example that through hard work, discipline, and persistence a person can rise out of poverty to capture the respect and admiration of the world.

November 23, 1974

On this date, at the age of twenty-two—and six years after making his debut as a professional boxer—Alexis Arguello, in the thirteenth round of the main bout at the Inglewood Forum, knocked out Ruben Olivares of Mexico, Featherweight Champion of the World, to claim the title. Nicaraguans everywhere raised their arms in celebration. The first Nicaraguan ever to win a boxing title, Alexis’s climb to the top had come to represent hope in a nation that recently had seen its capital city destroyed by an earthquake and that, at the time, was edging its way toward civil war.

From this day forward, Alexis Arguello reigned for nearly a decade as the undisputed champion in three weight categories—featherweight, lightweight, and super-lightweight. During those years he was the brightest spot in Nicaragua’s human firmament, the greatest source of pride for a beleaguered nation. His grace and power in the ring earned him the esteem of boxing aficionados throughout the world, and his name was often mentioned in the same breath as his formidable contemporaries—a stunning gallery of boxers that included a still resilient Muhammad Ali.

Nicaraguans, however, had adopted Alexis as their Champion when few beyond the borders of this Central American nation knew of him. His compatriots had taken the young man into their hearts in the early 1970’s, when, although new to the profession, he started to defeat an impressive string of opponents by knockout. Nicknamed “El Flaco Explosivo” (The Explosive Thin Man) by Edgar Tijerino—Nicaragua’s most renowned sports writer and commentator—on the night Alexis took the walk in the Inglewood Forum from the locker room to the ring to face Olivares, he carried the hopes and dreams of every Nicaraguan on his shoulders. And immediately after his crowning victory he became Nicaragua’s Knight-in-Shining-Armor, his country’s Ambassador of Excellence.

A Symbol of the People

Throughout Alexis’s boxing career, his behavior both inside and outside of the ring warranted his compatriots’ absolute faith in him. His nickname in the United States, “The Gentleman Boxer,” reflects how Alexis rejected the taunts and crude displays of macho bravado customary in his profession, choosing instead to always say kind things about his opponents. Moreover, after every victory he’d visit his rival’s corner to give him a warm embrace and offer a few words of encouragement. On one occasion, when the victim of his fearsome right hook failed to show signs of rising from the canvas, Arguello, instead of allowing the referee to raise his hand in triumph, pushed his way toward his rival to check on his condition. It is this facet of the boxer’s conduct that has received the most praise in the countless eulogies that have followed his death.

The Beginning of Arguello’s Descent

Ring Magazine ranks Alexis Arguello as the 20th best fighter of the 20th century, the Associated Press named him the best junior lightweight of all-time, and the International Boxing Hall of Fame inducted the Nicaraguan in 1992. But the fighter’s glory years came to an abrupt halt in 1983 when he attempted to win a fourth division title against the much-younger and harder-hitting Aaron Pryor who, although fiercely challenged by the Nicaraguan, eventually knocked him out in the 14th round. The defeat was a crushing blow that every Nicaraguan took personally. Alexis retired shortly afterward.

Arguello, however, still retained his good looks and charm. As a result, he received offers that kept him in the limelight, including a stint as a boxing commentator for HBO and a chance to try his hand at acting when he appeared in an episode of Miami Vice. In addition, in spite of having succumbed to an athlete’s worst enemy, the passage of time, he still remained his nation’s most glorious living hero.

Outwardly, then, Alexis’s life seemed idyllic: the son of an impoverished shoemaker, he had risen from out of Barrio Monseñor Lezcano—one of Managua’s poorest neighborhoods—to take the world by storm. He lived in Miami, owned a mansion, a yacht, several luxury cars, and attended parties alongside the rich, famous, and beautiful of the world.

Yet, although he led a glamorous life, Alexis never forgot his roots. He invested in Nicaragua—buying houses and vehicles for himself and his relatives as well as contributing generously to charity.

But as often happens with individuals who achieve wealth and fame through boxing, after the cheering ended Arguello’s life quickly started to unravel.

The first setback took place shortly after the Sandinistas rose to power in 1979, while the boxer was still in his prime. The revolutionary government confiscated all of Arguello’s holdings in Nicaragua, alleging that the boxer had been an associate and supporter of deposed dictator Anastasio Somoza Debayle. The reality was that Somoza, desperate for positive publicity, engineered Alexis’s presence at a political rally in the city of Esteli, and during the ceremony he bestowed upon the athlete the honorary title of Lieutenant in the widely repudiated Guardia Nacional—Nicaragua’s army. To all who witnessed the event, it appeared that the dictator counted with Arguello’s full support. Sadly, such occurrences, where the unwavering popularity the boxer enjoyed among his compatriots would be used for political ends, became a leitmotiv in Alexis’s life.

And a few years later, to add to the former boxer’s troubles, in the emotional void that followed his retirement, he went from being a millionaire to being broke, became dependent on alcohol and drugs—cocaine being the main culprit—and lost his family.

Alexis Arguello, the Contra

In search of something new to devote his life to after boxing, as well as still being angry over the confiscation of his properties, Alexis Arguello joined the Contras, the U.S. financed guerrilla force that sought to destabilize the Sandinista government. His enlistment was a significant public relations achievement for a group that was perceived throughout much of the world as lacking legitimacy. A photograph of Alexis Arguello wearing a Contra uniform circulated widely in the world press. The Sandinista government, in response, established a decree that forbade the Nicaraguan media from mentioning Arguello’s name, hoping to keep his compatriots from learning that their hero had joined the counter-revolutionaries. Reporting directly to Edén Pastora, the famed Comandante Zero—the Revolution’s best-known dissident who had led the Sandinista forces in the final battles against Somoza’s army—Alexis was ready to fight “to help free his nation from communism.”

While touring the southeastern jungles of Nicaragua, Arguello witnessed scenes of extreme poverty and suffering among Nicaragua’s indigenous population. Torn apart by their despair, he requested humanitarian assistance from the Contra leadership. They dismissed his concerns, saying that all resources were destined for the men and women fighting the Sandinistas. Yet the retired boxer had observed that the Contra leaders were living in relative opulence in neighboring Costa Rica. Confronted with what he considered a hypocritical stance, Alexis abandoned their cause.

The Lost Decade

Arguello returned to Miami to face impatient creditors and an Internal Revenue Service eager to collect back taxes. Knowing only one way to make quick money, he returned to boxing. But his motives had ceased to be pure, which had been the foundation for everything Arguello had done: his was a lifelong search for honesty and honor. No longer fighting for the love of the sport, Alexis retired again after only two fights, but in the absence of something meaningful to do with his life, he succumbed once again to alcohol and drugs. Reports of his erratic behavior flooded the Nicaraguan community. But Alexis Arguello remained a hero in the eyes of his compatriots. They had faith in the Champ, believing that he would be able to come from behind, as he had done so many times in the ring.

He resurfaced in the early 1990s, returning to Nicaragua after Violeta Chamorro defeated Daniel Ortega in the presidential elections. The purpose for ending more than ten years of exile was clear: to reclaim the properties the Sandinista government had confiscated from him. The process, however, proved slow and tedious. In an effort to draw attention to his dilemma, as well as to earn money for the legal wrangling, Arguello returned to the ring. But at the age of forty-two he was a shadow of his former self, and after two lackluster fights he hung up the gloves, for good.

Still, stepping back into the ring got the attention Alexis desired, speeding up the time it took to recover his properties. Also, returning to his homeland boosted Arguello’s spirits as he was welcomed as a hero. Politicians opposed to the Sandinistas sought his endorsement. Businesses did as well. He was a living legend: in the decade in which he was a dominant force in his sport, he had given a people desperate for redemption a chance to feel pride. But their worship also riddled him with guilt. Still battling his dependency on alcohol and drugs, he felt that he was living a lie and in doing so letting down every Nicaraguan that had ever believed in him.

Arguello tried many times to conquer his addiction, but to no avail. Desperate to take back control of his life, shortly after the turn of the century, he enrolled in ODERA, a recently-established rehabilitation center in the town of San Marcos, Nicaragua. The founder of this center, Francisco López, was also the treasurer of the Sandinista Party and a confidant of Daniel Ortega. After seventy-five days of voluntary confinement, Alexis came out proclaiming himself drug and alcohol free. More significantly, however, during the boxer’s internment, López had arranged a meeting between Arguello and Ortega from which the former adversaries emerged as friends.

Alexis Arguello, the Sandinista

Daniel Ortega, well aware of the mythic status the former world champion enjoyed among Nicaraguans, enlisted him in his plan to bring the Sandinistas back to power. Alexis became the party’s vice-mayoral candidate for the 2004 elections and his popularity helped to sweep Dionisio Marenco, the Sandinista mayoral candidate, into office.

Marenco became a popular and effective mayor. His star rose quickly on the Nicaraguan political horizon. But another Sandinista’s popularity, especially when it outshines Daniel Ortega’s, becomes ground for ostracism within the party. This had happened with Herty Lewites, Managua’s previous mayor, whom Daniel also had shunned. (Herty later became the presidential candidate for the dissident Movimiento Renovador Sandinista—MRS—and was considered a serious contender when he died from a heart attack only weeks before the 2006 election.)

With Dionisio Marenco falling out of grace with the Sandinistas’ undisputed leader, and with Daniel Ortega vying to place as many of his candidates as possible in office in the 2008 municipal elections, he knew he needed an extremely popular candidate to hold off Eduardo Montealegre’s bid. Montealegre had been Ortega’s most significant opponent in the presidential elections of 2006. To run against Montealegre, who was leading an alliance of political parties seeking to take back Managua, Ortega picked Alexis Arguello.

The results of the November 2008 elections, in which Arguello allegedly won with 51% of the vote, were severely tainted by widespread claims of fraud. Ultimately, after a quick recount that remains suspect, Nicaragua’s Electoral Council proclaimed Arguello the victor. But the election results, including Alexis’s, provoked nationwide protests; and the doubt surrounding the former boxer’s victory cast a long shadow during the six months he served as mayor.

What’s more, stepping to the forefront of the mayoral office, unlike when Arguello stepped into the ring, showed his lack of preparation for assuming a position of leadership in the full limelight of politics. His open style of communication, always speaking straight from the heart, provided plenty of fodder for being attacked and lampooned, which the opposition media certainly did, and gleefully.

But the public chiding didn’t bother Alexis, who was always up for a few laughs. Rather, it was the feeling that he hadn’t won the race for mayor legitimately. And what bothered him worse were the accusations of fraud and corruption that followed the election. The questioning of his honor, in particular, started to weigh heavily on the mind of the Nicaraguan icon. In a 2003 television interview with Fernando Chamorro, Arguello was asked if he wasn’t concerned that the Sandinistas were using him, the same way Somoza had done twenty-five years earlier. The former boxing champion replied that to be used was fine as long as it placed him in a position where he could help the poor, whom he considered his true constituency.

The Sandinistas, however, would use but not trust their chosen candidate. Rosario Murillo, Nicaragua’s First Lady, as well as the Presidential Spokesperson, named herself head of Arguello’s mayoral campaign and she, in turn, appointed several advisers to keep the former world champion on a tight leash, to try to prevent him from inadvertently saying anything damaging.

Then, after Arguello assumed office, in an agreement apparently reached beforehand, he allowed the secretary of the city council, the Sandinista Fidel Moreno, to be the true power behind the throne. Upon watching online videos of city council meetings, one can observe Moreno frequently whispering in Arguello’s ear, telling him what to say.

As the world worriedly watched the coup perpetrated against Honduran president Mel Zelaya, another coup was simultaneously taking place in the city of Managua while Alexis was in Puerto Rico attending a commemoration in honor of Roberto Clemente, the baseball great who gave his life bringing supplies to Nicaragua after the 1972 earthquake. Upon Arguello’s return, he learned that the city council had passed a resolution stripping him of all powers, except ceremonial ones. Seventy-two hours later, the Nicaraguan national hero was dead from a self-inflicted wound through the heart. The circumstances that led to his decision and what took place during this lapse of time still remain a mystery. Rumors abound of several confrontations between Arguello and emissaries of the president and first lady. What is certain, however, is that the orders to remove Alexis Arguello’s mayoral muscles came directly from the chambers of the first couple: Daniel Ortega and Rosario Murillo.

Alexis’s life had crossed paths with suicidal behavior before. His father had attempted it when Arguello was a child. And the champ, having reached the despairing depths of drug dependency in the mid-1980s, went as far as to put the point of a sharp knife against his chest intending to plunge it through his heart. Only the desperate pleas of one of his sons, then a child, stopped him from doing so.

But on July 1, when he pulled the trigger, it was neither the drugs nor the alcohol that provoked the act. Instead, the foul world of Nicaraguan politics, especially as played by the Sandinista leadership, moved him to commit suicide. Every Nicaraguan knows this. The former boxing champion was a man who behaved honorably and who always put his heart into everything he did, even in the brutal world of boxing. The tragic manner in which he ended his life, however, clearly indicates that Alexis Arguello had stopped believing in everyone and everything, including himself. On the night he pulled the trigger, not only did he pierce his own heart, but he wounded those of every Nicaraguan, both at home and away, who saw him as a larger-than-life figure, as one of Nicaragua’s noblest offerings to the world.

More ominously, though, the reaction toward Alexis’s death has revealed the unfathomable chasm that at present exists in Nicaraguan politics: those who oppose the Sandinista government place the blame squarely on Daniel Ortega’s and Rosario Murillo’s shoulders while those loyal to the regime are accusing anyone who mentions the first couple’s complicity of being on the CIA payroll. What remains a unifying theme above all the shouting is that both sides are deeply mourning the Champion’s passing. The people of Nicaragua are having trouble accepting that Alexis Arguello, their national hero, is gone. And what has become alarming for those who know the nation’s history of bloodletting and who are acutely aware that Nicaragua faces yet another political crossroads that may once again lead the nation down the dark passages of violence, Alexis Arguello’s suicide seems like a portent of things to come.

Balboa Academy: Year Three

When schools flourish, all flourishes.
Martin Luther

The principle goal of education in the schools should be creating men and women who are capable of doing new things, not simply repeating what other generations have done.
Jean Piaget


Many of the ninth-grade students who will be in my Hispanic literature course stopped by to meet me, for the first time, the day before school started. The occasion is an Open House, of sorts, where incoming freshmen are invited to visit the high school to become familiar with their new surroundings and their new teachers.

This marks the fourth time I've experienced such a day at Vasco Núñez de Balboa Academy. (I revisited my first two years as a high school teacher in “Balboa Academy: Year One” and “Balboa Academy: Year Two.”)

As my new pupils trickled in, stepping hesitantly into the classroom—their expressions revealing their legitimate fear that their next Spanish teacher might turn out to be an ogre—a question that former colleagues often ask me kept turning in my head: “Do you like teaching high school?”

When I answer that, indeed, I do, the skepticism in their eyes betrays their efforts to keep their doubts to themselves. And I fully understand their disbelief—teaching in a university, which I did in a former life, is the most prestigious, most intellectually challenging and lofty position a teacher can aspire to have. What’s more, these former colleagues understand, and fully, the extraordinary amount of toil and sacrifice that goes into obtaining a Ph.D. Thus, I can hear, and clearly, the unexpressed question that rings inside of their heads: “Why are you teaching high school? It’s a waste of a doctorate.”

These are, indeed, fair questions. Only a decade ago, I would have asked them of anyone with a similar academic background who was teaching in a high school.

If I were still living in the United States, I would feel uncomfortable teaching at this level—without question. Ph.D.s toiling in secondary education are stigmatized: members of the academy automatically assume that we lack the ability to compete in higher education. (The exceptions, however, are found in the best U.S. prep schools.)

But I’ve been residing in Central America since 1999, and to survive here the first thing a person must do is to make significant concessions in the way one sees the world, as well as in the way one earns a living. The universities that exist here—even those that claim to be affiliated with U.S. universities—are alien to me: they have little resemblance to the institutions that formed me and where I taught for years while living in the States. What’s more, their cultures and their complete lack of understanding of the concept of faculty governance frustrated me to no end. Thus, trying to prevent me from developing an ulcer or, worse yet, a heart condition, my wife urged me to steer clear of them; and after three entirely disappointing experiences, I saw the wisdom in her counsel.

Yet, I love teaching. I feel alive when I’m in the classroom, sharing my passion for literature and the written word. But, having chosen to remain in the tropics, where else could I apply my training and make a small contribution toward shaping future generations?

The answer, I discovered soon after moving to Central America, is in those high schools that abide by U.S. standards of education, of which there are several in the region. But even these institutions have quirks that prevent them from reaching their potential: a high turnover of recruited, American-trained teachers and administrators; owners and board of directors who lack a background in educational policies and procedures; and schools in which profit has become, unfortunately, the primary operational motive.

And then there is Vasco Núñez de Balboa Academy, where I’m about to begin my fourth year.

What sets Balboa Academy apart, I believe, can be traced to its origins. When the United States turned over the operation of the canal to Panama—on the stroke of midnight at the turn of the century—a group of teachers that had worked for years in Department of Defense schools in the Canal Zone started an educational institution of their own that would adopt the highest possible American standards. Moreover, the creators supplied an additional caveat: Balboa Academy would always place the students’ interests first.

To start a new U.S.-style school, virtually from scratch, is a bold move, a genuine leap of faith without any guarantee of success.

But the overwhelming support the enterprise found in the community, from the onset, startled, and then thrilled, the founders—eleven of them, all educators, all women. The first day Balboa Academy opened its doors, a large number of families placed their absolute trust in the institution. In return, the founders of Balboa Academy pledged to place quality education above profits.

For several years before joining Balboa Academy, I fantasized about being part of a faculty-owned institution. I imagined that such an entity, if well-conceived, well-managed, and able to maintain a pristine purpose, could become an educational haven in which students would blossom, teachers flourish, and classrooms would be exciting and creative arenas. (In fact, while in Nicaragua I explored, along with a handful of former colleagues, the possibility of opening our own university. Sadly, in addition to the timing being off, the obstacles proved insurmountable.)

In Vasco Núñez de Balboa Academy, such an institution exists. And what I admire most, as a teacher, is that the founders never bring the full bearing of their weight to persuade others to conform to their particular vision of what constitutes quality education. Instead, institutional decisions are reached, more often than not, by consensus, after deliberations in which teachers have the opportunity to provide input. The overriding concern of every change, every improvement, and every resolution revolves around the students. Although single-minded, this focus makes for a vibrant, dynamic environment that’s alive with the excitement of endless possibilities.

Having reached the end of the loop, I now return to the starting point of this piece, once again asking myself the perennial question, “Do I enjoy teaching high school?”

The answer is: “Yes, I do.” And I enjoy doing so because I am part of a bold experiment in education—the teacher-owned school. My experiences here have confirmed my belief that such an institution can become the best of all worlds. What’s more, I’ve arrived at this conclusion without mentioning the special, lifelong relationships that I’ve forged with dozens of students who, today, at the beginning of my fourth year at Balboa Academy, have become an essential part of my life.