Goodbye

While Thursday was a fake-out. The cosmos said, "You thought you were leaving Thursday, but Saturday it is!" It's Saturday and it's time to go back to Massachusetts.
In many ways I feel like I'm walking a plank, back to a life of stress and the constant feeling that everything is out of balance. Draggin myself out of bed in the morning, feeling gross on the car ride to work, drinking two cups of coffee at my desk to wake up, gathering papers together to run out of the office to see a client or fearing that someone is going to chew my head off for doing something wrong. The peer pressure to skip lunch because there's just too much to do--What a contrast! Everyone here, no matter how hard working, takes a two hour break during the day to nap--college students, my aunt who is an executive secretary at a large company, my other aunt who is a supervisor at a pharmaceutical company, my uncle who is a bus driver. Everyone takes a nap.
What does it mean to take this sense of balance and peace with me into the workweek that awaits me? Dominican Republic, has my stay with you only been a tease or did you actually teach me something that I can take back with me?

Serious examination of the explanations for why we shout: Se Fue La Luz!

In the United States I can always take a warm bath, so I take hot showers that last a while without thinking about it twice. I let the water run while I brush my teeth all the while hearing the voice of my environmentally conscious roommate in the back of my head. Since I'm paying for it, I have gotten better about turning lights off, but I still expect there to be electricity whenever I want it.
I remember Dominican Republic when I was a child. When, at 8pm, people would run around screaming, "Se fue la luz!" This was especially scary for me when I was already making my bed at night and all of the lights would go out without any consideration for my fear of the dark.
This was always a mystery to me. I knew that in DR la luz se va*, but I never knew the cause. It was a supernatural phenomenon for me that I left unquestioned, kind of like El Cuco--the Dominican equivalent of the Boogie Man which your parents would threaten you with when you disobeyed them. "You better wash that plate or the Cuco is going to get you." "If you don't come here right now, the Cuco is going to get to you."
When I was a teenager I began to hear rumors that the lights went out frequently because DR owed a German power plant money. But this trip, I wanted to know for reals.
My uncle who is an engineer and worked for the government during the Balaguer years, supervising the construction of aqueducts and such, explained that the problem is a very basic supply and demand problem. As rural-urban migration occurs; i.e. more people move from the campos to the cities (which is evident when you drive past Villa Mella and see the hill filled with little houses made of tin that look like cardboard boxes), the demand for electricity and water and other energy sources increases. Dominican Republic has not been able to meet this demand. This alone doesn't factor in the tourists who come and consume the islands resources, creating an even greater demand. Many folks have found ways to access electricity and water for free and use it inefficiently, leaving the light on for hours because they're not paying for it. No incentive.
So while my aunts and uncles in Dominican Republic always have running water and electricity because they have inversores, others who do not have the money to purchase these additional energy supplies are often without the ability to flush the toilet or to take a shower or to read at night. So what do they do? Like good Dominicans they get around it. They save tubs and buckets of water and use them to shower; they flush the toilet with this same accumulated water supply, often leaving little jugs in the bathroom to scoop the water with and to pour on your hands for washing. As you can imagine, hand sanitizer is popular in the poorer areas.
"Pero tio, I asked, are you saying that the problem is a statistical one? Knowing that population growth in cities is occuring, why not build more aqueducts to increase water supply?"
-That's precisely the problem, m'ija. The projections are inaccurate and the problem is governmental.
Seems simple, right? So why is it still a problem? Why are there not more intitiatives to get the numbers straight?
Or, once again, is this particular explanation also akin to the rumors I heard about the origins of this phenomenon when I was a teen?


*Se fue la luz: The lights left.
La luz se va: The light goes.

A Familiar Smell, Like Fosforo

The sound of the gentle breeze, the chriping birds, the flowing curtains, the waving palm trees have all replaced my usual morning sountrack on Pandora's Feist Radio--which, by the way, I highly recommend.  Things feel peaceful in the morning here. I wake up briefly to the sound of the gallo crowing and then to my itchy feet and arms because the mosquitos love me. And then I go back to sleep.
"AAaaaguacate, guineo maduro, zapote." "AAAAaaguacate, guineo maduro, zapote."*  A familiar sound for me that I hadn't heard in a whiiille.
Familiar. Yes, Boston and it's skyscrapers and it's large avenues and it's many cafe's is familiar. But this smell, this breeze, these people are familiar in a different way. I didn't realize how connected to this place I actually am until I looked over the island from the plane-window and was filled with emotion because I was seeing MY country. I was filled with a child-like emotion, as though I was seeing my father again after 15 years or like I was seeing into my mother's soul. Then, when I stepped off of the plane and I smelled that familiar smell of something burning. Ha ha. Believe me, it's not a bad smell! DR just smells like fósforo (matches) or something, all the time. And yes, Bekah, the plane roared in clapping when the aircraft hit the ground, soaring into el Aeropuerto de las Americas.
Although I hate to admit it, there are aspects of this culture I do not connect with, like the screaming policeman yelling, "Hijo de tu maldita madre!"*  to the oncoming traffick.
--Que policía mas malcria'o, responded my aunt.*
The traffick. Oh the traffick! People swerving in and out, driving through red lights, honking--Beeee bee-bee beep-- like crazy, yelling. What a fiasco! So glad I'm not the one driving.
It's a shame that for as much as I want to say that I love Dominican Republic for all that it is, I really enjoy the Colonial Zone the most--the most European looking and most reminiscent of Spanish colonization. The park where Christopher Columbus' statue resides is one of the more gorgeous places I've ventured through so far. I'm a sucker for those parks found in most cities in Latin America. In contrast, I'm not such a fan of the little barrio at the entrance of the community where my aunt lives: poverty to wealth right there in your face. The little barrio is filled with stores named after American boutiques with mis-spelled phrases like, "Fashion Butike" or something. And then just 3 minutes down the road you see the huge seminary marking the entrance of a more affluent place with huge gates and backyards and very well decorated houses.
That's Latin America, for you. Huge inequality, a gigantic gap between the rich and the poor. Not that the United States is exempt from this phenomenon either. However, the very marked contrast between the Mercedes Benzes and the charritos makes it more obvious. The little kids in rags asking you, "Regalame un peso*" show the desperation of poverty in this place.
But I am loving my mornings. And yes, to my housemates, I have done yoga in the large balcony area overlooking the patio in my aunt's house. I'll upload pictures. It's gorgeous. Hopefully, the neighbors haven't seen me or they'll think I'm weird. As the couchsurfer reminded me, "Here, people don't hike or ride bikes. A two hour hike is like really adventurous and you climb Pico Duarte with a tour guide and a mule who carries your stuff."  People seem to prefer being in their houses with their families, generally speaking. When I told my little cousin about the couch surfer who biked through the forrests of Venezuela she asked, Why would he do that? And when I told her I was going to La Zona Colonial she warned, "Lo unico es que alli se camina mucho."* These are all generalizations, my friends, from where I see the island; as a Dominican-York, second generation Dominican, who has not lived here and has not been here for 5 years. Afterall, my cousin is in the girl scouts and is going camping this weekend. So maybe there are some adventurous Dominicans.
All in all, I'm enjoying this peace, this sun, these roots and this people. I'm letting this breeze, the ocean and my family help connect a severed part of my identity that really only finds itself truly somewhere in the Atlantic ocean, sustained in the air between the two places that I am from.

*Aaavacado. Ripe banana. Sapote (a soft fruit, grown in DR)

*Son of your f-ing mother!
*What a fresh cop!
*Give me a peso (Dominican currency: 1 American dollar = 37 Dominican pesos)
*The only thing is that, over there (you have to) walk a lot

Bon Voyage (Or Should I Say: Buen Viaje!)

While the highlight of my night was spending an hour trying to get the God-forsaken #$!* wax off of my legs, the highlight of my morning was burning my tongue with a mouthfull of my re-heated coffee. It's the morning of my travel day and I'm filled with questions; like, would my vacation have been better spent or more relaxing if I just stayed in this city that I so love? I mean, my morning was wonderful--beside the coffee fiasco and the wax-trauma, I was greeted by the sun that shone on all of the pretty brick houses behind all of the young couples and singles going to work and walking their dogs. Not going to work and being able to take my time in the morning is enough of a vacation for me.  I got into my car and drove down Mass. Ave, past tall buildings and people who remind me that the public square exists, something I often forget in the suburbs. Relaxing. Re-assuring. MIT students walk across the Harvard Bridge as Alexi Murdoch reminds me to "just breathe". I stared at the skyline and parked near Berklee College of Music, went to my beloved Trident Bookstore Cafe. Familiar. The people that work at the bookstore know exactly the kind of books I like and the kind of person I am. For as much as we talk trash about our country, we're Americans. I'm Latin-(North) American and they, maybe African American or Anglo American. They are familiar with the classification I fall under: college grad.-looking to enrich her life after college. looking for meaningful read. wears skinny jeans.
In DR. my identity is not so black and white. I'm a lightskinned Dominincan who should belong in the Northern part of the country, but who grew up elsewhere. I'm a Dominican-York there, who is both admired and viewed as just a little ridiculous.
What will my vacation be like at a place I'm not so familiar with; where I could easily be identified as a money sign or a green card opportunity? A place whose routes and streets I do not know like the back of my hand and I could very well spend the entirety of my day on some small bus with chickens sticking out of the side in order to find a coffee shop or a beach. And here's the thing, if I were going on vacation to Chile or Argentina I'd totally be ok with traveling around in the chicken-filled sardine-bus, but in DR it's different. My mother reminded me between 8-17 times this morning that its dangerous to travel by myself. I'll have to be careful to tell my aunts where I'm going and when I'm coming home, something I don't have to do here.

But there are things to look forward to; like meeting my dad's close friend who will hopefully provide clues about his life for me and explanations about his political passion. I'm equipped with a book about a Dominican-York, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, to accompany me on this brief journey back to my roots. Maybe I'll have a lot to write about when I come back and maybe I won't. Maybe I'll relax and get a fabulous tan. Or maybe I'll be stressed by the end with a horrible sun burn. Maybe I'll loose a bunch of important items or maybe I'll realize that I actually have the potential to keep track of my things. Here's to a week of discovery. And I'm off to the airport.

Vacation time?

So I'm thinking of embarking on a journey to Dominican Republic. In my head, I'll spend a week painting with one of my aunt's who is a painter, discovering a coffee shop that I don't know-ex pats go to or students or artists or something--where I'll bump into an old friend of my dad's who will tell me all about my father's social and political involvements. This encounter will, then, turn into a book or a video which I will end up recording with the recording advice that I do not (yet) own. I will go to the museum of art in the capital and will find paintings of the painter/uncle I never met, and somehow, staring at this painting will infuse me with meaning and purpose. 

I will travel to Puerto Plata--and it will be sunny every day during my stay---I will meet all of these really cool artists and musicians, who will take me out every night. And not only will we be out dancing, but we will definitely have the time of our lives!  And these won't just be any old people; they will be kindred spirits who I will be in touch with via facebook for a very long time after. Heck! Maybe even email!  I will be so inspired and write poetry that someone will deem worth publishing some day. I will travel to a coffee-farm (is that what you call it? the place where they harvest coffee?) and this will make my trip meaningful. You know what else I'll do? I'll set up a meeting with one of the Universities and I'll learn about the initiatives they are embarking on and this, too, will make me feel like my vacation has a purpose. Of course, I'll sit on the beach and read all of Julia Alvarez's books and everything that talks about being a Dominican-American that I can get my hands on during this trip. 
Ok. these are the ridiculous thoughts that are in my head. Now that they're down on paper and in the cyber world and now that I have confirmed how stupidly ambitious and crazy my one week-dream-trip to the motherland sounds, I can commence my real plans for requesting a vacation. Let's see what I actually end up doing. Most likely, it will mean me staying home in Beverly, sleeping in and going to a yoga class every day.
Hhhmm...

A Flashback

House on Mango Street and Julia Alvarez-books filled the shelves, and these things are only noticeable to me now because no one around me, these days, knows what these books might represent--except for maybe those who were Spanish majors or who, by some accidental encounter, found out about this author or that book. 

I remember Maria Gonzalez's classroom, filled with bright colors and many books about who we were then.  Us. 

This memory of my childhood may be tainted by wishful thinking--wishful thinking of a world in which I am understood and do not have to constantly explain who I am, let alone wonder why I am this way; e.g. why I talk with my hands, why I'm a little loud, why I always have to talk about my experience and raise it as an important point in conversation.  But it may also be true that I was a part of something then; that my experiences were similar to those next to me even while the random scatterings of American children whose parents wanted them to learn Spanish partook in our classroom.

I remember dancing to Moviendo La Cadera in 4th grade, a dancing act that was led by Ms. Matos, our Puerto Rican teacher's assistant and confidant. She sewed colorful headbands for us and matching skirts. She taught us to cook locrio de pollo  in what used to be the home-making class at the Kennedy School. We partook in a play in which we were Puerto Rican, and Melissa, instead of saying Jayuya, shouted proudly, "Juyaya!" despite all of the practicing. 

I remember these mothers, who provide counter-examples for me when I am tempted to say that no one understands my particular family situation. I remember the Pentecostal Puerto Rican, parent of the class heart-throb, who did not necessarily fulfill the cool Latin-mom persona and looked more like my mother than Salma Hayek's character in Spanglish.

We learned about immigration in 8th grade and Emma Lazarus' poem inviting the "sedientos" (the thirsty) to the land of the free. And the history book became alive with our parents' respective journeys. We lost ourselves in stories of who we could be, female heros with last names that sounded like our own--Perez, Gonzalez, Miranda, Vasquez, Mirabal. We dreamed of possibilities. 

We were understood then. Maybe. 

Carta de corazon

I guess we're all struggling, aren't we? And when we're struggling we get pulled into a vortex of mis-matched expectations that each of us fail to keep for each other. We utter these desires to be held, understood, loved, supported and, hell, to just rest-- under the breath of our respective subconscious(es).
But as I allow manifestations of my own pain, fears, anxieties and exhaustion to flow out of the cages they dwell in, I realize that you, my beautiful friends, cannot always see their ugly origins.
You, in your struggle to hold on, are just asking to be held, and you are sometimes met with the manifestations of my inner demons in response.  But know that I want to honor your request with all of my heart. You, who have been so supportive and a force of healing for me, I want to give you all of the understanding, love and support. I want to put myself aside to hear you and give you words of affirmation. And know that when I fall short it's because I'm not thinking; it's because I loose touch with the ability to help, because I am still hurting.
What will we do, my dears? With all of this pain made of flesh, blood and bone? What will we do with all of this death and darkness? What will we do with the temptation to create hierarchies of pain, determining who suffers more and who should get the comfort award at the end of the day?
I will hold you in my mind as you cry inside the cages I can't always see. And even if I don't think you are doing the same for me, I will fall back like a cheesy-trust exercise with the faith that you'll catch me too.