Guerrillas Come to My School

     Our rickety school was a former chicken ranch in the hills above San Salvador. Our homes were either champas made of rusty sheet metal or mesones of adobe and cardboard. The new principal decided that all us kids in sixth and seventh grades should become revolutionary guerrillas.

     “Principal Toad” was our nickname for squat little Dario Rodriguez, el Director Sapo. He had recently appeared out of nowhere, and we could see that he was not like us.