“Esnorkleen”
One fish two fish, red fish blue fish. I mumbled the words through my snorkel amidst squeels of delight and laughter, directing all at brother Nick, also face down in the reef. Nick has lived in Costa Rica for some time and has done plenty of “esnorkleen,” but he enjoyed living this first with me nonetheless. My eyes were bulged with wonder, and quite a bit of pressure from the mask. My lips and nose were stretched wide giving me a fish face of my own. We were in stitches, choking on salt water and trying to keep our snorkels above the rolling waves.“Katy you’re swimming over top. Swim around this part so you don’t get smashed into the reef.” Nick, I can’t imagine this semester without him, I thank God everyday for his friendship.
Everything in the world disappeared that hour. I can only recall feeling such wonder a handful of times in my life. The coral had formed a forest of sorts on a steep hill; nature shows always refer to reefs as “home to hundreds of fish species,” but this was more like a city of thousands, or at least so it seemed. Schools of neon blue surrounded my body, the green striped community hovered below my feet, and even lower the giant spotteds and the shimmery rainbows wove through the coral—the coral. Fan-like, finger-like, tree-like, cactus-like, giant brain-like…I expected Ariel, Sabastian and Flounder to swim by at any moment. What beauty.
La Zurza
La Zurza, it’s a funny place. Dominicans consider it the suburbs, and although I am very unfamiliar with American suburbs, I am fairly sure my neighborhood here is no comparison. Here the houses are surrounded with cement walls topped with barbed wire or my favorite, colorful shards of class. Stray dogs run about. Every morning the first people up and out on the street are the Haitians, walking to work with garden clippers, machetes and paint buckets in hand. Several hours later, maids run outside to open the gates for the master or mistress of the house, leaving for work. Everything here has a rhythm, a rhythm I now feel part of.
Part of that rhythm is raking dirt. Behind my house there is a hill of dirt with a giant tin cylinder at the top that spouts chemical smoke. Men enter and exit the cylinder and I have no idea what its function is. The dirt hill is covered in hens, roosters and dozens of baby chicks. On the hill amidst the poultry there are always men raking the dirt, digging in the dirt, shoveling the dirt onto a pile then moving the pile to the other side of the hill. I’ve been observing this since my arrival and after months of being puzzled Genarina clarified all with, “you silly girl, they’re working of course.” In the Dominican Republic there are a lot of answers like that, at first this dissatisfied me because I never understood the “why” behind anything, no matter how great or how trivial. But I’m starting to entertain the notion that some things are more simple than we make them out to be. Perhaps here people are children, then adults, then parents, then grandparents, then woop--dead. Perhaps people work their whole lives, why? Because its what we do. Perhaps people get married in all kinds of different ways and situations. Why? You know, its marriage. I said entertaining the notion, that is, inviting it in for tea then dismissing it forever. Whether it is part of my culture that I cannot see past or part of my nature that I cannot compromise, I will always ask for meaning, and if denied I will always feel a little bit sad. Either way, there is the echoing realization (it sounds every time this culture stumps me) of how easy it is to seek meaning, plan your steps, value forethought and this “passion” thing when you wake up every morning with food in your refrigerator, an education in your head, clean blood running through your veins, bugs outside not inside your tummy…
Napping taxistas park along the street, they’re Rafael’s boys, my neighbor on calle seis and owner of “Taxi Garcela,” the company trusted by ladies in Santiago. Rafael is the equivalent of a Dominican mob boss in his taste for clothing, a very good friend of mine who shows me pictures of his little daughter, teaches me what to look for in a fine cigar and lectures me on not getting married too young. He’s a teddy bear, but he protects his own and tells me “you always call me, never the police, I am your police.”
For every few nice houses there is a crumbling building or dilapidated apartment from which large black women throw buckets of grey water onto the street. Then there are the buildings under construction that the crews actually live in, bathing with hoses and hanging their washed t shirts to dry on the scaffolds. Construction sites have a whole new connotation for me now; any woman walks by and the building erupts with whistles, piropos, all manner of sexual commentary and in my case “I lob chu baby” and “pamangame visa mamita americanita!” Their voices echo from within unfinished cinder block walls, I can’t see them, but they see me. It is unnerving when the most corrupt of “compliments” fall on my ears and it is just that, a sound that turns my stomach, I can’t see their faces. I keep walking. At night, we meet again, this time I’m passing by in the bus. Some are washing their clothes by flashlight while others perch on top of the roof, their cigarette lights illuminating their much too young, much too weathered black faces. Whatever was said to me earlier that day is forgotten as God reminds my heart “they are your brothers too you know.” This semester is the first time I have experienced the always-prayed-for “peace that surpasses all understanding--” almost always when encountering men.
The Zurza merges with el Canyon, the slum where all the gardeners, maids and nannies that work in the “suburb” go home everyday to tend their own banana trees, clean their own houses and love on their own kids. The memory of passing through this gully everyday will never leave me. Invalid Francia waves to me and calls out a blessing. I ask her how the fasting is going and she assures me that change is on its way, that we must always look up. Little Carlin always finds me and gives me a big hug. This six year old told me the first time we met that his favorite game was computer games, even though he’d never played on a computer, he is certain that would be his favorite. This community is just beautiful, broken and delightful. Charismatic evangelicals live along side pagans of all walks of life; praise music blares from one house, competing with the neighbors who pound their grindy-est, most base reguetón. They are busy rebuilding their houses (adding another layer of cardboard and tin tied down with wire) after Tomas hit the island last week. The colmado got a new coat of bright blue paint and everybody is all in a tizzy. I laughed out loud when I saw that the two little tots that run around naked had painted each other with splotchy blue stripes. They were zebras for a few blissful hours until their mamas discovered them.
I am white. I am female.
Hissing cuts through the air unlike any other sound. To get the attention of a waiter, a classmate, a stranger in a bar, or the Americana passing by, Dominicans hiss.
I spend a large part of my day walking down the street and I’ve had to learn to block out the constant “Sssssssssst! Pssssssst! Mírama Americanita!” People stop working and talking to one another, they turn and follow me with their eyes. “Well looky there! Pssssssst! Hey hey, miss America!” “Children point and yell in broken English “Sssssssst Americana heylo! Chu hab dollar for mi?” The ever confusing, "God bless you sexy." Then there’s the simple “Mommy look at the white lady!” The clerk at the grocery store, “This is a blessed day indeed! Hey! Look at this blonde angel that heaven has sent us!” I gets so absurd I can hardly feel ridiculed. Sometimes I wonder if I have a really sick alter ego that is causing me to hallucinate. Every block, every street corner, even in the ladies bathroom at school out of nowhere, “Your daddy’s rich isn’t he?” I never gave it much thought before, but here I am reminded every day, every hour: I am white, I am female.
The attention still bothers me, but my attitude has changed. I used to look straight ahead and not smile when people called me out, especially groups of men. But then one day an old man said "The only thing more sad than this rainy day is a sour-faced gringa." His words hit home and he was clearly a God send. I now make a conscious effort to greet people in public if they simply want my attention and haven't said anything really rude. Maybe they will think better of Americanos, or at least realize that some understand Spanish. I've had the opportunity to make a few people's day and I try to see it now as a mission. Just as important, I try to leave the discouraging encounters behind.
"En el fondo de la mirada late el alma humana...por eso la mirada no tiene color, ni sexo ni nacionalidad...Mirale a los ojos y descrubriras que es su hermano."
This is a quote used in an anti-racism campaign recently run in Santo Domingo. These words hit home for several of my students at Accion Callejera last Wednesday, during our "Dia de la Interculturalidad." I have been planning this activities day for quite some time now, and after being delayed by the hurricane I finally decided to just go ahead and do it and see who showed. You see, people cancel everything when it rains here, perhaps with good reason. After three or four days of heavy rainfall you notice a difference on the street; people grow more aggressive, some depressed, some anxious. Rainfall for many Dominicans is just bad news as it causes sidewalks to crumble, roofs to cave in, entire houses to slide down muddy hills...then the mosquitos swarm, spreading malaria and dengue. Its really awful. When the existing infrastructure is already crumbling, after a few days of rain it just starts to melt away.
This risk was worth taking. Several staff members did show up that day and the center was actually packed with boys trying to find a dry corner to sleep in. Yelling, cursing, shoving, fist fights and as always, the one boy hitting his head against the wall. Welcome to Accion Callejera. I take a deep breath and smile, "Is Mecho here?" "No senorita, she didn't show today." "Ok, well then, can you help me find some chairs and the projector?" We got to work and within an hour I was standing before a group of thirty.
The main activities and talks given at the center are about health and how to protect yourself as a homeless child. The boys are accustomed to raising hell while some poor soul stands up front lecturing them on safety. I still remember the first time I sat in, thinking it would be about washing your hands, eating right, seeking medical attention etc. Instead it was "Don't accept rides from strangers because they will kill you, take your organs and sell them in Europe to sick gringos. Don't eat food from dumpsters because rats pee on it. They carry Leptospirosis and you'll be dead within the day. That's what happened to Roberto, you all remember Roberto don't you? Don't work in the dump on hot days or you could catch on fire..." It went on and on.
Then there's me. "Boys today we're going to talk about culture and racism!" Sometimes I wonder who the hell I am and if any topic could appear less relevant to their survival. But then I looked out over the little crowed, black as black can be sat on one half of the room, honey brown on the other with one or two minglers in between. Little Ari waves at me from the front row and screams, "Hi miss Kati! Hi! Hi!" That's all I needed.
Hours later we had played, acted, discussed, work-shopped, debated and rolled through my super colorful, super interactive powerpoint that I am actually really proud of. The boys got a chance to share their experiences and illustrate my points, "I have to wait at the back of the line," "people call my Mom a Haitian---- " "my teacher thinks I don't speak Spanish." Most importantly, they wrote out ways we could make Accion Callejera a "racism-free center." After months of observing racism here on the street, at school, in bars, in homes, I'm starting to see a generational difference. Older generations of Dominicans and Haitians show animosity in their discrimination, probably remembering the border wars and Trujillo doctrine. But younger people seem to just be copying their adult role models without ever questioning why. I have a lot of hope for the seeds that were planted that day, I have a lot of hope for this generation, and I know that so much of their growth is contingent on the staff deciding to finally intervene.
Some of the boys learned a lot, some just had fun and of course, some just caused trouble. Yesterday I was trying to explain to Adam how I've had to learn to erase expectations. I feel like I have no meter stick with which to measure success anymore. It is so hard. It is so liberating. Beautiful thing is, that makes me ten times more delighted when somebody responds to me and engages what I'm saying. So despite the fact that somebody was always talking while I was talking, a little shoving and punching went on and Dominican F-bombs hit the floor, it was just so wonderful.
Family and friends, this place is growing very dear to me, not because it is easy, not because it is always fun, but because its the place where I have learned so much about this world and its people. It has been a place of personal transformation on an entirely new level. I only pray that it would be transformed, even in the smallest way, by my being here. I love you all.
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