When I Thought Was a Huslter

I just got back from a fabulous work trip with my fabulous boss. We drove to a beach town in North Carolina, for about 5.5 hours each way for a 2-hour-long meeting. The meeting was quite successful and the ride rather enjoyable. Beyond lacking sensitivity on my bottom due to sitting in a car for so long, I couldn’t complain…

However, on the way back to my house (now alone in my car), I started feeling tired, and thinking about the work ahead of me despite it being Friday. I have another work assignment out of town that will take all weekend and for which I have to wake up tomorrow at 5am. I also have an avalanche of time-sensitive emails that I need to respond to, and a load of responsibilities that only gets heavier the more time I spend out of the office.  As any dramatic young lady would, I took pity on myself and started thinking about how all I do is work and study and work some more. Such is the life of a hustler.

On my way home at 9:30pm, I passed by the local Hispanic supermarket to pick up my cousin Ronny from work. He got in the car and immediately started to tell me about this new guy that started working with him today. “He is Dominican, just moved to North Carolina from Florida. He had a car accident there, got laid off his job, has two children to raise, and his mother recently passed away. Man, he is having a hard time! He did not even have money to buy water today. I heard the manager is only letting him work this week, but I hope he can stay. Some people have it so rough…”

My cousin’s story shook me up and down and all around. Here I am, complaining about a fun trip to the beach and having too much work at a job that I love. Exhausted from all the hustling, heading home in my new car, to spend time with my loving family, and go to bed in my air-conditioned room. Real rough.  

Next time I get even remotely close to feeling sorry for myself, I hope I can think of this guy. Not for the purpose of comparison, or realizing “how good I have it.” But for inspiration, as despite his pain, burden, and hardship, the man tirelessly strives for success. “He was so energetic! Kept finishing the jobs really quickly and asking me what to do next. When he was telling me his story, he said ‘I will do any job, I will clean human shit if I have to. I need to support my family. I hope they let me stay…”

On our way back home, we saw Jose walking to his place – fast pace, long strides. In a hurry to get home, and out the empty and crime-ridden streets. I hope they let him stay.

Hunger is Real

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

Dirty Faces

I just got back from the southwest region of DR, specifically Azua and San Juan, doing “survey” for this summer’s AMIGOS program in the island (http://amigoslink.org/project/dominican-republic-san-juan). Along with the Plan International (AMIGOS’s partner agency here) officials, I visited approximately 8 communities in San Juan and about 10 in Azua. In some of them, we stopped, met active youth and involved community members, and talked about previous and future AMIGOS experiences.

All of the communities were quite poor. I took pictures of the different places we visited for my report, but to be honest, they all looked the same after a while: narrow unpaved roads edged by intercalated [once] brightly colored wooden houses and brown (less pretty) houses of similar architecture. They all had either zinc or thatched roofs, with a little space in the front for sitting under the shade of a tree during the hottest hours of the day. There was also the occasional (and random) castle-like construction, which usually belonged to someone from the community who had managed to move to Spain, New York, or Puerto Rico.

As I mentioned, I had to take pictures throughout this trip for my survey report. At first, I was a little shy. It didn’t feel OK to take pictures of places and people without permission, so I tried to do it when no one was looking (perhaps not the most ethical approach). The more I saw, the more I got into it- it just felt as if the whole place was a set: everyone looking so natural, going about their business in this perfectly still and picturesque rural area: carrying plantains, working in the field… looking poor, and so perfect for a post card, an NGO brochure, a Ministry of Culture newsletter, a political campaign poster, and so on.

One of the places I visited was the house of a young man who had volunteered nationally last summer, and was looking to volunteer abroad this time around. We chatted under a tree outside his house, and were accompanied by his neighbors: three cute little boys, with dusty faces, dirty clothes, and no shoes. There was that feeling again: I must capture this image! I asked politely if I could take a picture of them, and they excitedly said yes. As I got ready to take the picture, their mother yelled from inside the house: “Wait, they are dirty and have no shoes on!” Then the cab driver said, “let her take it, it’s the reality we live in.”

The mother was completely right. How many of us are usually looking sexy when hanging around the house on totally normal days? Even on not such regular days, are we always ready and willing to take a picture that could potentially be posted on Facebook, much less a brochure of some kind? NO. We take time, we get ready, and we try to look our best. Then, why must these “at risk” people look dirty and raggedy in ALL our photos?

Travelers, let’s take a step back, think about their perspective, and give our subjects a minute to look their best. I understand that it is sometimes necessary, but not every picture has to be a “Feed my Starving Children” pose.  Regardless of background and socioeconomic standing, we all want, and should, look our best for the world.

Btw. I took the picture anyway. 

A life of meaning

Today, as I entered my apartment building to have lunch, I saw a man that, despite having never seen him in my life before, I immediately grew to admire. I don’t know his name, his age, or his history; all I know is that he sells avocados. Sure, there are many men who sell avocados and other fruits (yes, avocado is a fruit) in the street, but not many are like this one. This guy, under the blindingly bright sun of noon (and probably starting from the early morning) walked up and down the streets of Santo Domingo, pushing a piece of wood with a wheel, screaming out of the top of his lungs, “AGUACATEEE!” again and again.

He was wearing a big blue, and dirty button down shirt rolled up in the sleeves, worn-out jeans, and crocks so wasted by the hot pavement that his soles touched the ground. He was a very dark man, with no hair, and missing more teeth than one is used to. He was a hard-working man, with a voice so strong that it bounced from tower to tower in the street with an echo, trying to reach the ears of the wealthy people eating lunch, and hopefully craving aguacate, in their expensive apartments.

I watched him from the moment I got off my car to the moment I entered the building… and my eyes teared.

The other day a friend posted on Facebook:  “Life is not about finding meaning, it’s about making meaning.” I wish I could change this man’s situation in a more meaningful way than buying him an avocado or two. But as much as I want to, I alone will never be able to change everyone’s lives. Life gave him lemons, and this man made lemonade and made his life, despite difficult, meaningful. Many of us have much sweeter fruits, yet can’t think of anything to do with them. I suggest we watch, learn, and start making smoothies to share with those who only got lemons. Giving, sharing, supporting can give meaning to our lives, and that of others. 

Blindness at the Stoplight

It’s 1pm, I’m driving home for lunch and the streets are filled with hungry drivers and permanently angry taxi men. Excessive beeping and honking fill the air, along with dark smoke emitted by the old public bus in front of me. As the traffic slowly advances, a woman tries to forcefully cut in front of me- I yell at her and join the madness.

Rush hours in Santo Domingo are not particularly pleasant, but are no doubt entertaining. Among others, waiting in traffic you will find men, women, and children selling: frozen bottled water, ice cream, popsicles, menthol and TV antennas, candy, baby parrots, stuffed animals, fruits in season, sunglasses, school supplies, cell phone accessories, vegetables, and nuts. There are also beggars and window cleaners, both of which have their own spectrum. Encountering these people in traffic has the power to trigger numerous emotions… or none at all.

During my first few weeks living here (and in all my previous shorter visits) I used to feel sorry for these ambulatory figures. How much money could that guy possibly make selling baseball stickers? Where are that kid’s parents? Is that window cleaner my age? Why are they there and I here? Without thinking twice, I gave my money to beggars and bought things that I didn’t need. But things change.

Experiencing this traffic everyday, seeing the same beggars, the same random sellers, and the same unnecessary and annoying window cleaners has somehow made me blind. I have become immune to these people and their needs… not necessarily a great thing for someone looking to seek a career in public health and/or social work.

Luckily, I caught myself doing it: looking away when the same guy (with no apparent disability) knocked on my window asking for change, screaming “NOOOO” when the window cleaner threw his dirty sponge at my windshield (from a block away) right after I come out of the carwash, choosing not to buy an avocado even though I knew I could eat it at lunch…

The truth is that I got sick of the “bullshit.” For a while (after my sorry period) I thought that many of these people could be looking for jobs instead of begging, going to school (at least part time) instead of hanging out in the streets and cleaning some windows here and there, that parents could be sending their children to school instead of to ask for money.

But I have reconsidered: Who the hell am I to judge them? I know nothing about the situation in which these people find themselves, let alone about the way they could/should spend their time. The only thing I know for sure is that I would hate to be in their place, and if they knew a way to get out of it, they probably would.

So in this season of giving, I would like to bring attention to the blindness to sameness that inadvertently takes us over. Lets pay careful attention to our routines and spot people that may be in need. I’m not suggesting we give money to every beggar in the street, but rather anything we can provide to anyone that crosses our paths (some beggars appreciate smiles too!). Whether it’s a dollar, a smile, a hug, or a simple look, it can make someone feel special, loved, cared for. The least we can do is notice; the rest comes naturally. Lets open our eyes.

Compliments

Have you ever gone to meet a friends newborn, the baby everyone has been waiting for, and the moment you meet him/her the first thing that comes to your mind is how ugly the baby is? Well, there are some really ugly babies out there. Some change for good, some don’t. But regardless, you HAVE to give your friend compliments of her new baby because she loves it and it is not returnable. In those moments, you say things like, “wow, he is so big and strong!” or “look at how wide his eyes open, Im sure he will be really smart!” or “que graciosito!,”  which means friendly or nice. (Take notes, if you ever have a baby, and your friends avoid the word “cute” at all costs, you know there is a problem.)

The point is that people like compliments, whether it is about their babies or their shoes. For instance, how much does it suck when the first thing people tell you is that you look really tired? Whether you are tired or not, the fact that someone told you that you could look better already kills your mood a little. Luckily, receiving positive comments has the same psychological effect, but in a good way. One day my mother and I were in the train, an old homeless-looking man walks in and sits across from us. My mother, being the polite person that she is, gives him a half smile and continues to talk to me. Before the man got off the train, he approached her and told her she had the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. My mother was in the clouds, and smiled as hard as she could for the rest of the day to see if she would catch another compliment. “I bet if I had given him a full smile I would have blown his mind away!” she said.

Compliments are nice and everyone likes getting them. The best part is that the more you give, the more you receive! There is almost always something good to say about someone. Say it to them! Wouldn’t you want to hear it too?  

The Power of a Juicebox

Two girls were walking down the street, one was pretty, one was sleek. Kidding! Lol. That’s not how the story goes. Ok, here we go again:

Two girls were walking down the street on a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon. They were eating doughnuts and drinking juice.  It was noisy and busy out, as people in Santo Domingo tend to take Sunday afternoons to go out with the family. On their trip, the girls passed by two big malls, a bike shop, and several other commercial places, including an amusement park with a wax “ice” skating rink in the parking lot. The traffic was heavy, but fluid, and the sidewalks were full of children and their parents trying to get into the new “ice” skating sensation. It was crowded, there was loud music playing and cars blowing their horns, but the walk was pleasant nonetheless. It had been a while since the two friends had been together, especially in an environment so full of life.

As they walked further down the same road, the street got significantly less lively. They passed by a few banks and other closed businesses; there was neither music nor people, just cars and boys that cleaned the front glass of people’s cars for change. They passed a Haitian family walking towards the busy part of the road that seemed surprisingly happy (sadly, this is not a common scene in Sto. Dgo.), and a man painting the wall of a bank. The man was the first person either of the girls had seen working that day: he was sweating, breathing hard, and sitting on the floor next to the wall he was almost done painting. The girls made no comment about him, but soon after passing him, Juana turned around, took a small juice box out of a plastic bag, and offered it to the tired man saying: “Drink this, friend. You need a break.”  The man, with white paint on his hands and his face, took the juice with a pleasantly confused expression, and watched Juana walk away with her friend, Maria. Again, no comment was made about the situation even though the Maria seemed surprised.

The following week Juana slept over Maria’s house. On their way out to get a cab in the morning, Maria picked up the newspaper from outside the door and took it along (she was very serious about reading her own newspaper every morning). But that morning, instead of reading it as she normally did, she gave it to the cabdriver after arriving to their final destination. She later told Juana she had never done that before, but that seeing her share her untouched juice with the painter made her feel “fuzzy” and inspired her to do the same. Juana had no idea her interaction with the painter would impact anyone’s behavior, but it did, and maybe that of the painter too.

Names changed to protect the identity of those involved.