Soaky the Clown

It was a cold January evening, the kind of night where the sharp chill outside made the warmth of the bar feel like a sanctuary. Soaky the Clown sat at his usual spot, his painted face unusually thoughtful as he flipped through the pristine hardcover of Soldiers and Kings by Jason de León. The crisp pages bore sticky notes and underlined passages, evidence of Soaky’s careful study. Beside the book sat a frosty mug and a neat line of empty shot glasses, silent witnesses to the weight of his reflections.

A group of university students and a few regulars had gathered near him, drawn by his rare quiet. One of the students, a young woman with a notebook, finally broke the silence.

“What’s the book, Soaky?” she asked, her tone curious.

Soaky tapped the cover gently, his fingers lingering on the title. “It’s about migration,” he said, his voice steady but heavy with meaning. “About the people risking everything to cross from Central and South America to the U.S. But it’s their stories—the circumstances of why they leave—that tie it to the bigger picture. It’s people driven to survive, to live by any means they have.”

The young man with glasses frowned. “Circumstances? Like what?”

Soaky leaned forward, his painted face shadowed in the low light. “Violence, Poverty, Corruption, the stranglehold gangs have on their communities and roads. When gangs run the streets and the highways, people are left with no choices. You either join, pay up, or get out. And if you can’t afford to pay—and most can’t—your only option is to leave.”

He turned the book toward the group, pointing at a marked passage. “De León doesn’t just tell their stories—he explains how systems, both there and here, push them into these impossible choices. And it’s not just random bad luck—it’s decades of history.”

Sandy, the bartender, set down the glass she’d been polishing and leaned in. “History, huh? What kind?”

Soaky pulled out a stack of news clippings from beside him and slid one across the bar. The headline read: ‘The Secret History of U.S. Interventions in Latin America.’ “Take Guatemala in 1954,” he said. “Jacobo Árbenz was trying to implement land reforms to help the poor. But United Fruit Company didn’t like that—it threatened their profits. So, the U.S. backed a coup to overthrow him. The result? Decades of civil war, tens of thousands dead, and a country still reeling from the chaos.”

Another clipping followed. ‘US Backs Honduras Coup Despite Public Outcry.’ “Or Honduras in 2009. Manuel Zelaya was ousted because he dared to challenge corporate interests. The U.S. called it a constitutional crisis, but let’s be honest—it was about keeping the elites happy. And what happened after? Violence exploded, gangs took over, and people started fleeing in droves.”

Pete, one of the older patrons, grunted from his stool. “And now people in these same places are running from the desperate conditions.”

“Exactly,” Soaky said, nodding. “Gangs run the show now, and they don’t leave much room for choice. You either fall in line, risk your life trying to resist, or leave. And when people flee to escape that kind of hell, what do we do? We build walls, militarize the border, and treat them like criminals.”

The young woman frowned, her voice barely above a whisper. “And the book? What does it say about the migrants?”

Soaky’s expression softened. “It reminds you they’re human—not just numbers or political soundbites, but mothers, fathers, children with dreams and fears like anyone else. De León doesn’t gloss over the pain or danger; he puts it front and center, forcing you to see it for what it is. He finds the humanity in the guías—the guides who risk everything alongside the migrants. People don’t just wake up one day and decide to be a guía. They’re caught in the same web of desperation, often as trapped as those they’re helping to cross.””

The young man with glasses tilted his head. “Trapped how?”

Soaky leaned back, his fingers drumming on the bar. “By the same system. Gangs force people into roles—smugglers, lookouts, guides—because survival in these places often means making choices you wouldn’t otherwise make. Everyone’s just trying to get by.”

Sandy crossed her arms, her brow furrowed. “Soaky, what’s the takeaway? What do we do with all this?”

He sighed, taking a long sip of his beer. “The takeaway is that migration isn’t a crime—it’s survival. If we want to talk about borders, we need to talk about what’s happening on the other side of them. We need to stop pretending these problems aren’t connected to us—our policies, our history, our interference.” We must remember that these are human beings seeking a place to live, raise a family, and belong.

The bar fell silent, the weight of his words settling over the group. Finally, Soaky raised his frosty mug, his voice steady. “To the ones who cross,” he said. “To the ones who survive. And to the hope that one day, we’ll stop giving them reasons to leave.”

The clinking of glasses carried a solemn weight, the usual barroom cheer replaced by quiet reflection. As Soaky returned to his book, carefully marking another passage, the conversations around him shifted to softer, more thoughtful tones. For the rest of the evening, the January chill seemed a little less biting as his words lingered in the warm air, planting seeds of understanding in those willing to listen.

Link to book Soldiers and Kings on Amazon