I just got back from my grandparent’s house, located in a
“not so fancy” part of Santo Domingo called Barrio Los Frailes II. This is the
place, same town, same house, where I was born and grew up to become the
beautiful young lady that I am today (wink).
My family’s house is one of the oldest and nicest in the
town, probably because we are one of the few people who travel and work abroad.
My grandparents retired to Santo Domingo after over 20 years of living in the
US, working ungodly hours in sweatshops, babysitting, pushing delivery carts in
supermarkets for a tip, spreading flyers, cleaning college dorms and houses,
etc. Without knowing more than a few words in English (which is still true
today) they worked hard, and struggled more than I could ever imagine, judging
from their stories. Together, they made enough money to raise their 4 children,
and take them to the US where they could also earn a more decent living than
they could at home even as [not well-connected] professionals.
Now that their faces are wrinkled and arthritis is kicking
in, they are back home, living peacefully in the same house they built together
in their 30’s, and raising chickens for fun. “It gets boring, sometimes, that’s
why we play dominoes and I kill his chickens for lunch while he prays” says my
grandma about my overly-protective-of-chickens grandfather.
Coming to visit every now and then, I have come to realize
that not everyone in Los Frailes had the same luck. Hanging out with my
grandmother on the front porch, we talked about Marina, a now old lady that
took care of me while my mother left to “try out” the US. Her husband died, she
has no job, and all of her 3 children along with their spouses and
grandchildren depend on her. My grandma normally saves Marina a portion of
lunch, which she takes home to eat peacefully every day (meaning, to share with
the 10+ people waiting for her at home).
“It’s incredible!,” my grandma expresses angrily. “That’s
why she is so skinny… her children are so old, yet don’t make an effort to take
care of themselves.” It amazes me too.
“A lot of people are hungry in this town. See the people
next door? They eat whatever they can find around 11am, and their mother cooks
at 4pm, that way they don’t have to make dinner,” says my grandma sadly. These
“people next door,” are good family friends, people who I knew from when I was
little, people who came to my birthday parties, people who I thought were like
me… “normal.”
“My lady, you are one of the only families in this town that
eats three times a day,” says Marino, the guy from the grocery store across our
house.
Realizing this was a shock. Hunger is real, necessity is
real, and it happens to real people, people we know, people we care about,
people that matter. But the thing is, all people matter, even those that we
don’t know.
Hunger is not just something happening somewhere in Africa,
it’s something happening everywhere, to people we may or may not now.
The question is…what can we do? My grandma saves Marina
lunch, my dad gives Raul (the Haitian doorman) dinner when he is home, a friend
of mine takes his leftovers to go, and gives to the first rando that comes
around, you…?
I hope that one day ending world hunger will no longer be a
concern, however until then, we can all play a small part affecting those nearest
to us.
My grandparents playing dominoes
My grandpa's chickens
