I forgot to tell you about my last night in El Seibo. It seemed as though the entire neighborhood came to see me off. I almost teared up when I found that Elida, the pretty young housekeeper had laid a shirt that I had once complimented on my mosquitero as a gift and when we hugged goodbye, she told me in slow, careful English that it was “nice to meet you.” As I walked through the streets to say goodbye to my beloved neighbors, kids shouted my name. I hugged my neighbor Rosa who told me that my time in El Seibo had gone too fast, exchanged kisses and high fives with her kids Jaime and Victor and their sister Rosie handed me a green plastic bracelet and added the achingly sincere parting words that I’ve found to be common with my Dominican friends: “don’t forget me”. As I played cards with my mom, more children congregated at the door, more than I can ever remember being introduced to and they called for me and asked me when I was leaving. I bring it up now because I am reminded of it as I settle into my new barrio in Santo Domingo, where, unlike Cheers, everybody does not know your name and I have three months to find my place again.
I’ve become a transplanted, additional aunt, sister, daughter, sharing meals and taking part in activities like visiting the national aquarium and celebrating mother’s day which is a big deal here, perhaps because motherhood is more revered, perhaps because it’s more ubiquitous. Before leaving the office on Friday the mothers in the office were given felicidades=congratulations, gifts of roses and snacks of cookies, cheesecake, bizcoho, soda, and were brought together to be photographed while the Dominican mother’s day song was sung by all, that’s right--they even have a song. I visited the house of my sister (and coworker) Joanna who has taken such good care of me since my arrival. She looked lovely in a sun dress for mother’s day and while my doña was out having her hair done at the salon, an extremely frequent ritual for any Dominican woman, Joanna, her son Brailyn, and I watched The Guardian, ate mangoes and ice cream cones and played card games—I taught War and Kings in a Corner. I was happy to meet Joanna’s husband Bisman who works with street kids near Boca Chica, and who looks like some bearded folkloric god. My doña pointed out, laughing, the discrepancy of his huge bulk next to Joanna’s slight frame. He brought sangria while I chatted with his brother Giovanny, a jovially father of three who had moved back to the D.R. after ten years in what the Dominicans call Nueva Yol. He had a mean Brooklyn accent to show for it which he told me resulted from hanging out with ‘’all those blacks.” We had the usual banter about how he would like to have someone to practice his English with and I reply that I dislike speaking in English as it stunts my growth. I have also come to detest when anyone analyzes my Spanish skills as lacking as came up here “Ella no habla mucho”: she doesn’t speak a lot or “Ella no entiende todo”: she doesn’t understand everything—these frequent comments, though surely innocuous in the blatant Dominican culture get under my skin, especially as they are always expressed in the third person when I am standing directly in front of them. If I know enough to understand that you’re saying I don’t know much---I think I know enough! ANYWAY. The conversation continued as such (in Spanish mind you as I persisted to respond in Spanish)
G: Well, you’ll enjoy your vacation for two years here (this was after having explained my volunteer situation and him having told me that I needed to find a Dominican boyfriend to pay for everything for me since I wasn’t paid much.)
Me: I’m not on vacation, I’m working.
G: Yeah, but work here, it’s not like “alla” or “over there in the States” where it’s just, go to work, get in the car, come home. You can enjoy yourself, travel, go to the carwash (danceclub)… Here, I don’t have to pay the water bill, I don’t have to pay the light bill, I don’t have to pay for the house…”
(I thought I’d forgo the politically correct model that was suggested in training) “Yeah, but here, sometimes we don’t have water, and sometimes we don’t have lights.
“Yes but, that’s good too, when we don’t have water the family steps up and comes to help us, when there’s no lights, there’s no radio, and no television and you go and sit on the patio and talk, you just have each other.”
I couldn’t decide if the guy was trying to comfort himself after having to return from the states or if he truly felt that way, or both. Peace Corps volunteers (myself included) can have a real cynicism for this island. Why are the people irresponsible? Why doesn’t anything function the way it’s supposed to? I often find myself caught in the middle, sometimes basking in the beauty of the vibrant mess of the D.R.—it’s incredible generosity and tenacity, in some ways, its innocence, sometimes feeling guilty that these ideas may cause me to overlook the problems that make development workers cringe. This country where I have three mothers who have taken me as their daughters in a matter of weeks, where upon asking for directions, a doña will stop what she’s doing and take me by the hand and lead me to where I need to go, where young carro publico drivers tell me “cuidate mi corazon”:take care of yourself, my heart, when they let me out onto the corner at night. The same country where I want to yell while trudging through garbage laden streets when I can’t breathe another lung full of exhaust and someone calls me "China" ...