Don't Jump Out of Moving Vehicles

Collective Parenting

2007-07-14T13:23:00.000-04:00

On Monday, equipped with my power suit and high heel shoes, I walked along the uneven roads of Swetes Village and up Roman Hill to wait across the street from All Saints Roman Catholic Church for a bus to take me to town where I was to begin my work at the Directorate of Gender Affairs. There, at the bus stop, stood two older ladies. Being a good Antiguan, I said, “Good Morning” so that they could see that I have manners. If not, I probably would not have heard the end of it. “Good Morning,” they replied in unison in the Antiguan sing-song I have missed. “Oh, she so pretty and nice,” one of the ladies said to the other. I smiled humbly after hearing the compliment.

Then, the same lady turned to me and said out of nowhere, “Listen, you pretty, and dem men dem gon follow after you. Don’t let dem a spoil you. All dem a want is sex, and then when dem a get it, dem a turn dem back pon you.” I smiled and nodded at her advice, saying that I was focused on my studies, not on men. Soon, afterwards, the bus arrived and I wished my two new friends a lovely day as I closed the bus’s door shut. When I got into the bus, praying that it was going to take me to where I was trying to go, I started to reflect on what the nice older lady had said me.

Of course, I have heard that very same thing from my Antiguan mother—let your man wait because after he gets sex, he’ll leave you. Believe me, that idea has been engrained in my head. However, what I enjoyed most about the women’s schooling me on the ways of men was that it seemed that in Antigua, raising children is everyone’s job. Even on Thursday when I was taking the bus home from town, the lady next me kindly told me, “You musn’t bite your nails.” I replied, “You’re right. It’s a bad habit. Thank you.” Her comment and the one of my older lady friends caused me to think about my students in the Bronx, who would never want to hear anything from anyone else because “that ain’t they mother to be telling them what to do.”

Unfortunately, in the United States, everything is so individualistic. No one likes to be told what to do. No one wants to hear how she should raise her children. No one wants to get involved in any one else’s business. In contrast, in Antigua, everyone is in your business. The island is small, and the villages are even smaller. Everyone knows everyone, and everyone has a role in raising all children. The idea of a collective parent evokes the African proverb, “it takes a village to raise a child,” and indeed it does.

Parenting should be collective. Children are our present and our future, and for us to only care about our own children and not our neighbor’s children is to do a disservice to our society, as we would probably all like productive individuals living among us. When issues of education and public health and of abuse and discrimination against children come up, we should all get involved. We should all fight the fight because we would want the best for our children and thus should want the best for other children no matter which part of the world they reside.

Did I plan to come to Antigua? Did I plan to go to Dominican Republic, for that matter? No, I did not, but something moved me to these destinations. In fact, I had a conversation with a friend this week and told her that it was the need for humanity that moved me, that brought me to these places away from family and friends. It was the injustice, the inequality, and the poverty that made me come here and go to Santo Domingo. I felt that little me could do something, could make some sort of difference, but as a collective unit, we could all make a bigger difference. We should all be walking activists, fighting for all children as we would fight for our very own.

Full circle: a visit to Santo Domingo and a new journey in Antigua

2007-07-06T13:05:00.000-04:00

I walked through the very same streets in Santo Domingo and saw poverty right where I left it a year ago. Orphaned children who shine shoes instead of attending school hung around on Calle Independencia, waiting for business. Street hustlers yelled broken English to tourists to buy their made-only-in-the-Dominican-Republic-goods.

The same Dominican faces and their unfortunate conditions mixed with curious, naive tourist families and foreign men with their caramel-colored-by-the-hour-escorts welcomed me as I walked briskly on El Conde. Illusions of change and progress with the broken down roads in la capital for the construction of the metro still leave the poor, abandoned and suffering. Not much has changed, sadly.

My visit to the maternity hospital reminded me of the hurt and pain I felt each day I worked there. There is a new door by the entrance that separates the waiting room from the upstairs patients' rooms, but the waiting room in the adolescent unit still fills to capacity with young-mothers-to-be. There are still little resources, so little that during my hour's visit, I found myself playing pharmacists again, distributing medicine and instructions to take them to pregnant teens like I had done every day last year.

The purpose of my trip to Dominican Republic was to gather information from successful non-government agencies who work with and support sex workers. Prostitution in the Dominican Republic is legal. Of course, that is not to say that it is easy being a sex worker. Female sex workers experience police brutality on a daily basis and put themselves at all types of risks daily. Some sex workers never make it home alive.

During my first day there, I interviewed a sex worker, who has been doing sex work for twenty years. From her, I learned about the reality and the life of someone who is involved in commercial sex work. On my second day in the country, I had a meeting with three NGOs that work in that area and that have been successful in the work that they do with sex workers. From my meeting with the gracious representatives from their organizations, I learned about commercial sex work from the institutional perspective.

The rest of my short trip in the Dominican Republic was focused on my catching up with friends who became family and exploring parts of Santo Domingo that I had not discovered before. Right now, I am in Puerto Rico en route to Antigua, where I will be working with the government in their Directorate of Gender Affairs office. I will start a project I proposed that will be focused on the Dominican sex workers in the country so that Antigua could provide them with better support and sexual and reproductive health services. I still do not know what to expect, but I am excited to be doing this work for the marginalized in Antigua.

Es Asi

2007-02-03T22:05:00.000-05:00

Es así
El mar está coqueteando con la orilla,
Viniendo y yendo, yendo y viniendo.
Las nubes se rezagan de arriba,
Mirando esta historia de amor tan triste,
Sabiendo que estos dos nunca pueden estar juntos.
Cada vez que el mar y la orilla se vuelven a reunir,
El mar se separa de ella
Con una gran fuerza sin su propio control,
Llevándose consigo un pedazo de ella,
Dejándola más sola, desconsolada, y abandonada que antes.
Cuando ella está lista para rendirse,
Él regresa, tratando de confesar su amor,
Pero,
Antes de que él pueda decírselo, se separa de ella otra vez,
Y esto pasa
Por días,
Por meses,
Por años,
Y él vive solamente para decirle que él la quiere,
Y ella,
Ella pasa su vida,
Esperándole.

ENGLISH

Es así
The sea flirts with the shore,
Coming and going, going and coming,
While the clouds linger above,
Watching this sad love story,
Knowing that the two could never be together.
Each time the couple reunites,
The sea separates from her
With an uncontrollable force,
Taking a piece of her with him,
Leaving her more lonely,
Disconsolate,
And abandoned than before,
Just as she is ready to give up hope,
He returns to confess his love,
But
He is pulled away from her
Before he gets a chance to say anything,
And this happens
For days,
For months,
For years,
And he lives only for the hope of confessing his love,
And she,
She spends her life,
Waiting for him.

Conquistador SIDA

2006-05-05T16:02:00.000-04:00

April 9, 2006

It was still early so the Colonial Zone’s Parque Duarte was not as littered with its usual crowd: rebels, posers, artists, queer people, beer-bottle collectors, and sweet-talking sanky-pankies with foreign partners at their sides. Sitting on a bench, my friends and I discussed politics, gender, race, and sexuality after having just arrived back to Santo Domingo from a campo in San Cristobal. All we wanted to do was relax and keep with us as much of the campo’s serenity as possible.

Mid-way in a conversation about my hair, a woman approached us to beg for money, completely ruining the mood. I looked up at her, acknowledging her presence, but could not understand a word she was saying in her mumble-speak. Out of nowhere, she lifted up her huge, black blouse and revealed her wet, pee-stained checkered pants to prove to us that she was going to use whatever money we would give her to buy an adult diaper.

She continued her testimony by showing us different parts of her body that were slowly deteriorating: her legs, her arms, her stomach, her everything. Several times as she spoke to us, she bent over in pain clinching onto herself and scrunching up her face as though she had just eaten something sour. She confessed to us that she was dying as tears trickled down the premature wrinkles of her drawn-in face.

My Bronx instinct told me not to believe her, to think that all of this was some scam to get money out of us, two foreigners and two Dominicans with New York City flavoring, but death and suffering consumed her being. She struggled to support her thin, fragile self up, a thirty-eighth year old trapped in an old woman’s body waiting for her last breath.

After learning she suffered from AIDS, her frail appearance made sense, and I also realized that although I had worked and talked with HIV patients before, I had never known anyone with full-blown AIDS in my life. Now, all the statistics, all the scholarly journals I had read about AIDS finally had a face—a young woman, invisible to society, with no money, with nowhere to go, and with no family or friends supporting her.

Years ago, when she was a younger, vibrant woman at her job in Santiago, she was forced down by some man and raped, only to learn later on that his violent and voracious act would be the cause of her death. I sat in shock and in disbelief as she spilled out the events of her life—all the things she had done and those she will never get to do.

“What’s you name?” She asked, looking deep into my eyes through her wide-framed glasses. “Dena,” I replied eagerly in an effort to remind her of her personhood, which was lost when she was driven to make the streets her home and strangers her family. “Milagros (Miracles) is my name,” she said, and we stared at each other in brief silence as though we were both thinking the same thing: nothing about her life reflected the meaning of her name.

Then, she kneeled down to me and broke out into a bachata song about her last hospital visit. She struggled to sing, often taking short breaths from her sprinkled-with-rotten-teeth mouth. I absorbed her lyrics, as the beauty and soulfulness of her voice were mesmerizing. At the end of her song, she walked away, leaving us to try recuperating any remaining campo tranquility while she continued her begging in Santo Domingo’s Colonial Zone, having no choice but to spend the rest of her life suffering a brutal and fatal colonization of her body.

Old Italian Man at Playa Guyacanes

2006-04-04T15:55:00.000-04:00

April 1, 2006

I was lying on one of those white plastic, worn-out, rent-for-the-day beach chairs with my face absorbed in a book. My plan was to get some reading done while enjoying the beautiful Caribbean scenery and the relaxing sound of the ocean’s comings and goings. I arrived at the beach equipped with my one-piece bathing suit and basketball shorts, extra protection from preying men, because I did not want to be bothered today. I had learned my lesson months ago in Sosua when a group of European men mistook my token-ness at the resort for my being a Dominican prostitute, even in my conservative two-piece suit.

Next to me, and my dilapidated chair, were a group of old men, some greasy-haired, others bald, spitting Italian words and gestures all over the place. Their sprinkled-with-white-hair chests and pregnant guts complemented their tight bikinis. Apparently, they did not get the memo: old men should not try to strut their not-so-hot stuff in Speedos. I attempted to concentrate on my reading, but I was distracted by their loudness and their sense of power and entitlement. Instead of struggling to focus on my book, I turned toward my friends to join into their conversation but was interrupted by one of the bald Italians before I could say a word.

“Americana?” He questioned. It was as though he had been waiting for me to put my book down to get my attention, to intercept my words. “No,” I replied. I never say I’m Americana anyway. “I’m from Antigua,” I continued, giving him the benefit of the doubt although, in the back of my head, I knew that he and his friends had to be sex vultures scavenging Dominican women. “I have never been there. I should go there.” he replied, looking as though he was taking a mental note to look into it for future sexual investments and expecting an invitation to there from me. Then, he told me, in his part Spanish, part Italian, that he was in the Dominican Republic for six months, a vacation from the cold, something he always does evidently.

As much as I did not want to talk to this old grimy Italian, I was curious; I wanted to put a face to these prostitute-searching men. He persisted with small talk, and after learning that I also lived in the Dominican Republic, mumbled, “Maybe, you could call me, or I could call you sometime, and we could get together.” I pretended that I did not hear what he said and sought refuge in my book, which suddenly looked more interesting than it did before. I locked my eyes on to the black letters of the white pages while he remained staring at me, his aged eyes’ burning me worse than the Dominican sun.

Several times, he attempted to get my attention, but I ignored him, immersed into my fake-reading. In the awkwardness of the moment, he conveniently noticed a friend and walked to him, away from me. “Thank goodness,” I thought to myself, and I finally joined my friend’s discussion. In his absence, two teenage Dominican girls, after being called over, joined the Elderly-Men-Who-Think-They-Are-God’s-Gift-To-Women Social Club. I watched these girls, who had nothing in common with these men, try to engage in meaningless conversation with them. They sat among these baked foreigners, putting on a show for them, entertaining them as though they were kings.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, in my pitying these girls, a hand brushed over my head. It was his hands, his dirty, disgusting, women-objectifying hands. All I could think was that this stranger old-enough-to-be-my-great-grandfather had touched me, had run his hands over my head, probably getting some kick out of feeling my what-is-for-him exotic hair. Shocked by his boldness, his utter disrespect for my space, I was unable to speak; I was unable to react.

After my initial trauma, I gave him a Dena-from-the-Bronx look. I felt so annoyed, so assaulted, so dehumanized by the way he petted my head as though I were some animal. Nothing about me said, “Touch me,” but he must be used to getting his way around here. I got up from my on-loan chair and hopped onto another crappy beach chair away from him, something I should have done sooner, and at the same time, something that I should not have had to do. I plopped my book open, looked out toward the horizon, and listened to the ocean’s music drown under Italian cadence.

The Sick Baby

2006-04-02T17:33:00.000-04:00

March 23, 2006

“I would like to go upstairs with you today,” I said to the psychologist, the words blurting out of my mouth uncontrollably. She motioned for me to come, and I followed her without really knowing what I was getting myself into. We walked through a long, narrow corridor where pregnant women scurried around like ants and pass a make-shift waiting room at the hospital’s entrance where patients’ loved ones sat idly in the Dominican heat.

The first time I visited the adolescent post-partum room on the third floor I wanted to cry. It was too much for me—to be in a room full of disadvantaged teen moms that I could not help and to be in a place that reminded me so much of Dana’s suffering. This time like the last time, the Virgin Altagracia in the framed picture on the wall stared at the new teen mothers endearingly. Her serene face contrasted the nervous and clueless expressions of the girls she watched over.

Metal-framed beds were lined up next to each other on each side of the room, where nothing separated one patient from the other. Each mother was exposed; her business was everyone else’s. In the corner of the room, I saw a family that I had met previously. I had developed a relationship with the mother and her pregnant daughter during their hospital visits downstairs. As soon as the girl’s mother, Luz Maria, noticed me, she ran to me and gave me a hug. “I came looking for you twice to give you a gift,” she said. I told her that a gift was not necessary, but she wanted to express her gratitude to me, her gratitude for my making them feel as though they mattered. I was touched.

I walked with her to the last bed in the room where her seventeen-year old daughter struggled to sit up, her breast out in the open in an effort to squeeze milk into a bottle for her baby. I wondered why she did not simply breast-feed; then, I looked onto her bed to realize that every other mother in the room shared their beds with their new borns except for her. “Where’s your baby?” I asked. “He’s in intensive care,” Dulce, the teenager’s aunt, answered. “He has respiratory problems,” Dulce continued. I listened to her explain everything to me because that was all I could do. I tried to change the topic. “When did you give birth?” “On March 21,” Maria, the new mom, said. I assured her that her baby would be intelligent because he’s an Aries, like me, even though I do not even believe in that astrological sign crap. Somehow, I wanted to give her hope that her baby would make it, and then when he did make it, he’d be some genius.

Unsuccessful attempts at extracting milk from her breast led the family to decide that Maria should visit her baby, Francisco, to breastfeed him. Four of us took the trek downstairs to the intensive care unit where babies in plastic boxes fought for their lives. When we reached Francisco, the nurses were giving him an injection in his left hand. The needle protruded out from his delicate, virgin skin. Maria stepped away, not being able to see her son like that, weak and fragile. I understood how she felt completely. I know how hard it is to see a loved one fighting for life.

Maria begged me to ask the nurse what ailed her baby. She felt powerless, so I did her that favor. “What’s wrong with this baby?” I inquired. The nurse explained that Francisco was doing poorly, that he had severe respiratory problems, and that he would have to stay in the hospital until he improves. I looked behind me to see if Maria was still in the room, but she had vanished, not wanting to look as though she had sent me on what should have been a mother’s mission.

I exited the room to find Maria sitting down with her mother and aunt. “What’s wrong with him?” They pleaded, almost attacking me with their curiosity. Suddenly, I felt like the doctor that has to approach a waiting family to tell them the bad news, that some relative had just passed away. I had seen this exact scene so many times in movies or on television shows, and now that I was presented with the real-life script, I could not even speak. I explained to them that Francisco was still doing poorly but that with time he would improve. I kept it simple, not going into details, using the Spanish-is-not-my-native-language excuse. I was not prepared for this.

I saw Maria’s face become overcome with pain. She tried hard to fight it, to pretend that everything was fine, but when we returned back upstairs, Maria’s tears started to pour down onto the dirty hospital floor, leaving clean spots where they had fallen. “I was born ill too,” I added to her mother and aunt’s cheer-uppers. I explained to her that my twin sister and I stayed in the hospital two weeks after being born and that now we were both healthy. I had no choice but to lie. I neglected to get into Dana’s tumultuous medical history. I was desperate. I just wanted to help.

Maria stopped crying when we reached her too-old-to-still-be-in-use hospital bed. Her mother and aunt had convinced her that she had to be strong for her baby and that she had to take all of this as a learning experience. Despite their crisis, they were making arrangements for me to come to their house to share themselves, their lives, their everything with me. I watched them as they showered Maria, and me, with strength, wisdom, and love and wondered why they would ever feel the need to thank me for making them feel as though they mattered when it is because of them, I matter.

Stealing Innocence

2006-03-07T16:44:00.000-05:00

March 1, 2006

It is routine for three of us to sit at a one-person desk asking patients questions about their medical histories. I usually block out the many conversations around me so that I could pay full attention to the patient with whom I am talking. “Yes, she has always been epileptic,” a voice answered. Suddenly, I looked in my colleague’s direction to see a mother standing by her child, her concerned eyes fixed on her daughter’s innocent face.

The young girl, this woman’s daughter, sat awkwardly on a tan, metal, fold-out chair, not really knowing what was going on around her. Her hair was divided into eight big braids equipped with ribbons, resembling the childish do’s I wore until I begged my mother to let me do my own hair in fourth grade.

She wore a pink polo shirt, parts of it drenched with saliva that dripped down from her mouth uncontrollably. Her white ankle socks peeked out from her no-brand sneakers the same way waiting patients peeked at this unexpected mother, wondering how she ended up where she was, pregnant at 17 and mentally and physically unable to take care of her offspring.

I did not want to add another pair of eyes to the many that already glared at this mother and child, but I could not help myself. I wanted to know more. It was obvious that years of epileptic fits without proper medical treatment caused much damage on this girl’s body, so much that the nurses could not even weigh her because standing took too much effort for her. What was also obvious to everyone was that her fits were not the only threat this girl had experienced.

“She must have been raped,” the patient with whom I was working whispered. I nodded in agreement, trying to hide my disgust and anger for the sick man who saw no problem taking advantage of a vulnerable child and then leaving her and her mother with a baby they could not afford to care for. I wanted to leave the crammed desk and bolt pass the full-to-over-capacity waiting room to find this man, who for me, represented the men who raped the many women in my life, who stole their happiness. I wanted to avenge their rapes, their suffering, my suffering.

I looked at this poor teen mom again who, despite her expressionless face, said so much to me. I sensed her frustration of being constantly stared at and of being trapped in her own body, unable to articulate her feelings. I sensed the pain, the confusion, and the terror she must have felt as some man made her a woman and a mother too early, stealing her innocence from right in front of her face.

Old Lady on Calle Winston Churchill

2006-02-28T14:49:00.001-05:00

February 28, 2006

The left side of her dirt-stained, flower-patterned dress hangs down from her shoulder, exposing her aged bosom. Her soles are as black as the burning asphalt she walks on each day to beg passers-by for money. With desperation and vulnerability written on the wrinkles of her face, she sticks her hands out in front of her the same way church-goers do to receive the body of Christ on Sundays.

I stand on the sidewalk, waiting for the stencil of the walking man to fill with green light so that I could continue on my way home. I do not ignore her like I have been trained to do on New York City’s MTA trains when people beg for money. I do not pretend to be fast asleep or absorbed in an uninteresting book—desperate attempts to be excused from not noticing or not acknowledging panhandlers. But, there is simply no escaping the pobreza in the Dominican Republic.

It shouts at you each day when you run into parentless boys, equipped with tin cans and shoe polish. They roam the streets each day in search for someone’s shoes to shine when they themselves do not know what wearing shoes is like. Pobreza whispers in your ear when you read about the exploited boys and girls who have no choice but to be the sexual outlets for oversexed men and women, Dominicanos and foreigners alike.

Then, there are the people who scavenge through garbage heaps in richer neighborhoods, making someone else’s trash their treasure, reminding me of the “bottom-feeders” who “check the air for the fall of excess / of too much, flecks of extra, / from the higher-up folks in the sky” in Gary Snyder’s "Walking The New York Bedrock Alive in the Sea of Information." Pobreza haunts this country.

And now, the light turns green, and I have to leave this old woman who captured my attention during my two-minute wait to cross the street. Though, I wonder if she too would rather be on a journey to some casita she could call home instead of spending her days on Calle Winston Churchill, making a living off of other people’s pocket change.

Cucaracha versus Dena

2006-01-25T11:38:00.000-05:00

November 30, 2005

I woke up to the feeling of something moving back and forth over my leg. In my semi-conscious state and with my eyes still shut, I lazily lifted my sheet up from me in an effort to flick off whatever it was that was bothering me. I was on the verge back to sleep when the same back-and-forth motion started over my legs again. After a few seconds of just lying in bed in my somewhat delirious state, I realized that this sensation was not stopping.

Suddenly, in a panic, I opened my eyes. In the darkness, all I could see was a black creature over my sky-blue sheets. My first thought was that this was a small mouse and that I was going to die from some disease that mice carry. So, I screamed and jumped up onto my feet and flung my sheets up to hurl this pest off of me. From my bed, I examined the floor in an effort to find the culprit that had awoken me.

But, I saw nothing, and truthfully, I did not even know what I was looking for. Then, in the corner of my right eye, there it was—a gigantic cucaracha on the pillow on my bed. It just stood there righteously, staring at me. It was as though this creature wanted to start a fight. If it could talk, it probably would have told me, “Who do you think you are throwing me over here like that? You’re in MY territory. I was here before you?” But, luckily, this cucaracha did not speak.

It flew across the room to spite me, I believe, to let me know who the boss was, but I was not having that. I mean, I’m Dena from the block. I have seen my share of cockroaches in my childhood—so many that my older sister started to name and to talk to them in our run-down building in the Bronx. I knew that I could handle this cucaracha no matter how huge and talented he seemed. I was not going to let him win.

When this pest landed on the dresser, I stepped down from my bed and armed myself with the Gravis flip-flops I bought on sale from Middlebury’s Forth-N-Goal Sports Shop. I snuck over to him and watched him. I contemplated my and his next move. Then, BAM, I smacked him hard enough to hurt him, soft enough to allow my host family to continue sleeping peacefully. He fell onto the floor in a panic. His legs that once walked over mine were now dislocated. I used the same flip-flops that smashed him to sweep him outside my room. I closed my door, went back into my bed, and murmured to myself, “Now, who’s the boss, Mr. Cucaracha?”

Debut in Dominican Newspaper

2005-11-22T18:08:00.000-05:00

The title reads: Adultos hablan de la infancia
(Adults talk about children).
The picture was taken at the National Congress,
where participants of the WANGO conference met.

2005-11-22T18:07:00.000-05:00

This is the Hoy newspaper. I am wearing orange.
Click on images to enlarge.

Neocolonialism in the sex trade

2005-11-22T15:36:00.000-05:00

November 7, 2005

I was wearing the only two-piece bathing suit I own, the brown one with black curvy designs that I bought in Antigua the summer we visited my grandmother’s grave. Usually, on trips to the beach, I wear a one-piece suit complemented by a pair of basketball shorts to cover the child-bearing hips I inherited from my mother. I have always concealed myself, not because I am uncomfortable with my body, but because I could never get used to being the sexual object of someone else’s gaze. However, since it was the first time I was at a resort without my family and, instead, with friends my age, I thought that exposing a little more of my body would enhance the already-liberating experience.

Not surprisingly, within minutes of stepping foot on the beach, illegally set aside for hotel guest only, one of the scuba instructors was professing his love to me. I thanked him for his compliments and told him that a long distance relationship would not work out anyway. He pleaded, “Pero no hay distancia en el amor. No hay fronteras,” (But there is no distance in love. There are no boundaries). I smiled at his attempt to court me the way he must have succeeded with other foreigners. He went along his way, but not before telling my friend that she and he would make handsome Dominican babies. I was not insulted that my future offspring were not good enough for him. After his leaving, I was finally able to escape to the mesmerizing music the sea’s reunions with the shore create.

As the earth started on its daily retreat from the sun, my friends and I took that as a sign to make our own retreat from the beach. I insisted that we stop for a drink to take full advantage of the all-inclusiveness of the hotel. On my way to the bar, I noticed a table of German, maybe Dutch, men who were calling each other’s attention to me. I tried to ignore their stares, their sexual appetite for me, but they watched me the same way a lion watches its prey. These four men suddenly made me aware of my body. They raped me with their eyes.

In passing their table, they attempted to get my attention by muttering, “Saludo,” each in their own gringo way, but I had already noticed them; their effort was unnecessary. I returned their greeting only to be polite. They wanted me to stop. I did not. When I finally reached the bar, I ordered a refresco (soft drink) and realized that these men must have thought that I was a Dominican prostitute among the sea of fair-skinned beach-dwellers in the city with one of the highest rates of sexual tourism, Sosua.

With a plastic cup of Coca-cola in my hand, I had no choice but to pass these same men again. They continued to examine my brown, exotic skin intently. I avoided eye-contact because I did not want to know what their eyes desired to express to me. Their blatant objectification was sufficient. I did not need to know anymore. To them, I was just sex, just what they were probably looking for.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Outside of every bar and club in the small Northern pueblo of Sosua, they sat still with their legs crossed and backs upright, resembling dolls on display in a store’s window front. Their faces, although expressionless, were perfectly painted with make-up; their hair nicely styled. Their bodies were adorned with the best flashy outfits they must have owned. These women were on sale for the highest bidder.

Prostitutes gathered on every corner, every cranny, selling their services. White men paraded the streets, some with these dark-skinned women already by their side, others still searching for their own doll to purchase, to own for a few hours. I lamented for all the women, and men, of the world who feel that they must resort to prostitution just to make it to the next day.

Suddenly, I realized in the middle of crossing a street that this was a form of colonialism. Foreign men come from all areas of the globe to this tiny, impoverished town to buy sex, to establish their power with money. The town’s inhabitants have no choice but to sell their bodies for a few pesos, as there are not many opportunities to earn money to support their families. The sex market is booming in this quiet town. The town inhabitants do what they have to do.

They are powerless to the foreigners who come in and flaunt their power. Instead of being raped by force, as natives were in the past, they are lured to do what they probably do not want to do by the foreign money they need to survive. They are objectified and dehumanized the same way Dominicans were during colonial times by conquistadores. So many years later, they are still powerless; they are still sex slaves. To these foreigners, who are mostly white, they are not regarded as people, but as objects of sexual satisfaction. They are just sex, the same way I was just sex to the four men at the resort who are probably roaming these very same streets looking for their own Dominican doll.

Rude Man on the Street

2005-11-02T17:41:00.000-05:00

October 28, 2005

I do not know what gave him the right to throw a little piece of whatever-he-had-in-his-hand at me. Certainly, his calling me “bella” did not excuse his action. I wanted to run after him and hit him over the head with the Westover School Nalgene bottle I had in my hand to teach him a lesson about respect, but I did not, and I could not, as I was walking alone on a poorly, lit street in a country who I have known for only two months. All I could do was muster up an annoyed “Por favor,” but what I really wanted to tell him is too obscene to write.

I continued on my way home, completely exasperated because not only had he objectified me like most Dominican tigres do, but also because he saw nothing wrong with his action. He nonchalantly walked passed me after invading my space--expressing no remorse, saying no “lo siento” (I’m sorry).

His rudeness and disrespect for me caused me to think about the many articles I have read about the high rate of domestic violence in the Dominican Republic. I remembered the woman I met during my first weeks here who had left her husband and children in a pueblocito miles away from Santo Domingo. She could not tolerate her abusive husband anymore. He did not hit her, but he was killing her slowly and painfully each day with his verbal assaults. She had to escape. Without her telling me, I knew that she had suffered and was suffering because one’s eyes do not lie.

“He threatened me and told me I must come back. He has a gun,” she confessed. What was I to do? I could not march to their small house in the Dominican clay mountains and play police. I could not change him, make him respect her, or demand him to allow her to live again. I was just as powerless as she was. She continued, “I miss my children. If I go back, it is for them.” Although she had no desire to return and no more strength to endure his abuse, she would sacrifice her temporary freedom for her children.

“I admire you and your strength,” I told her. “Not many women could pick up and leave as you did.” Somehow, I felt the need to empower her with my words and make her feel accomplished for breaking away from her husband. However, I felt a sense of sorrow rush upon me because I know she was still not happy. Even though her husband had shredded her apart with his verbal daggers, she left the only piece of what she had left of herself with him—her children.

I asked my friend about this woman the other day only to learn that she had gone back, that she would sacrifice herself for her children. Despite the abuse, her husband provided financial stability, prestige, and power. She, like the many other women in her situation, has no other option but to endure the daily abuse and torture. Unfortunately, in many developing countries, it is difficult for older women with children to secure jobs, especially since there are limited opportunities. I, at least, was able to walk away from my 2-second public assault,unscathed and unharmed, whereas this mistreated woman must reluctantly spend the rest of her life in the battle zone of her husband’s name-calling.

El Festival Presidente

2005-11-02T15:31:00.000-05:00

October 16, 2005

I have never been the type of person who fantasizes about marrying some pop singer or superstar that does not even know I exist. I always found all that dreaming and wooing over famous people silly. That is why I barely buy CDs or go to concerts. I think there are better ways I could spend my money instead of making the-already-rich richer.

Yet, I was convinced to go to el festival Presidente, a 3-day event of the biggest Latino performers sponsored by the main beer company in the country, Presidente. I did not know what I was getting myself into, but I figured going to the festival was all part of the experience.

El festival took place in the Olympic Stadium in Santo Domingo. Thousands of Dominicans from all over the country took the trip to the capital to celebrate Latin music over the weekend. Performers included: Grupo Negro, Julieta Venegas, Diego Torres, Marc Anthony (with J. Lo), Frank Reyes, Eddy Herrera, David Bisbal, Chayanne, Krisspy, Franco de vita, Sergio Vargas, Hnos. Rosario, Toros Band, Rubby Perez, and Daddy Yankee.

Despite the shoving and pushing up front where my tall friends persuaded me to stand during the weekend, I had an amazing time. Everyone danced, celebrated the Latino culture, enjoyed the music, and, of course, drank Presidente beer. There is no other rhythm like the Latino rhythm that hypnotizes your mind and takes over your body. If you ever get the chance, go to el festival Presidente--if not for the music, for the experience.

My Family’s Visit to a Private Clinic in Santo Domingo

2005-10-13T15:19:00.000-04:00

October 11, 2005

“I haven’t been this sick since eighth grade,” Dana strained herself to say. She’s fifteen pounds lighter from the last time I saw her a month ago. We are not the twins we used to be. Her pale skin and fragile body contrast the unfortunate ten pounds I gained this summer and my Dominican-tanned face.

I lay on the floor on a folded comforter while my mother rubbed Dana’s back on the queen size bed on which I usually sleep. “Don’t worry about me,” Dana pleaded. But, how could we not? How could I sleep comfortably as my twin sister cried next to me? I could see the pain in her eyes that tell me that she’s tired and frustrated, that she is ready to give up, but Mommy and I would not allow that. We’re fighters. We have always been. I did not sleep that night; no one did.

In eighth grade, Dana was diagnosed with a rare stomach disorder called Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome (CVS). CVS is a rare stomach disorder which causes a person to suffer severe vomiting and nausea. It is as hard for me now as it was back then when I first learned that Dana was sick. I refuse to get used to seeing her like that, vulnerable and in agony all the time. I still believe that she will get better one day. I have to be strong because that is all I can do. I am helpless but not hopeless.

The doctors are helpless too. None has ever tried to find out how to make her better. When she goes to the emergency room, the doctors drug her up to mask the pain, leaving her even more vulnerable and incoherent then when she entered. She tries to tell the doctors what is bothering her, but they do not listen. They seem not to care.

When my host mother insisted that we go to the emergency room this Saturday, we hesitated. We thought that if the hospitals to which we have been in the United States are bad, then the ones in the Dominican Republic could not be any better. Desperation kicked in though and we went to the hospital despite our reservations.

It was raining as we walked the two blocks to the private clinic on the corner of Calle Jose Joaquin Perez. The white sign with big red letters that read, “Emergencia” welcomed us as we entered into the waiting room. The room was empty unlike the waiting rooms I have become so used to at Hartford Hospital and Waterbury Hospital. Instead of institutional, worn-out, and stained seats, the clinic had what seemed to be antique furniture. The floor was so spotless and shiny that you could see your reflection in it.

We did not even have the pleasure of waiting in the waiting room because the nurses, who dressed in white, neat uniforms, attended to my sister immediately. They led Dana to a clean bed where they attended to her. A woman with glasses, the doctor, walked to Dana and asked us what was wrong with her. My host mother explained to her that Dana had been vomiting for several hours.

I continued, explaining to the doctor my sister’s medical history as best I could in a language that is not mine. At times, I had to ask Dana questions because she knows her body best, and the doctor listened to me intently, as I made up words for medical terms. Despite the language barrier, it was the first time that we had ever experienced a doctor who listened, who empowered us.

Perhaps, she understands that the patient has the most expertise on his or her body. A medical degree from Harvard or any other medical institution seems be reason enough for American (US) doctors we know not to listen to Dana. One should not insult these know-it-all doctors or their egos by trying to explain anything. This is what I have learned.

After conversing with the doctor, she decided how she would treat Dana and explained everything to us. She would give Dana something for the nausea and the pain. We knew that she could not cure Dana right then and there, but she tried to help anyway unlike the American doctors we have experienced, who see patients as tasks and not as people they need to assist.

The nurse came to inject Dana with medicine. I turned away because I could never stomach seeing people poke my sister with needles. As always, the nurse had to try more than once to find a good vein. Dana barely has any left. Her many trips to the emergency room have left her with thin veins and scar tissue—battle wounds of her illness. The nurse felt bad; she said she hated digging people more than once. She tried one more time with a smaller needle and was unsuccessful.

Mommy and I did not judge her. We know that it is difficult to find a good vein in Dana’s arms. Instead of stabbing Dana’s arm multiple times like most nurses at Waterbury Hospital do, she called another nurse over who tried to find a good vein and who was successful. Dana tensed up from the pain the needle’s intrusion into her vein caused, but the nurses, both of them, rubbed Dana’s body to soothe her. “Respira, mi amor, mi carino,”(Breath, my love, my darling), one said, as the other gently and humanely injected the pain-killer solution into Dana’s weak body.

I observed the nurses; I observed how they treated Dana like family, like a person. I was surprised by how close they were to Dana, how they touched her in a loving way. When they talked to us, their tone was not condescending like the tone we have become so accustomed to hearing at Hartford and Waterbury hospitals. They do not assume we are ignorant minorities who have nothing better to do than go to the emergency room. They respected us, and we almost did not know what to do with ourselves.

Thirty minutes later, Dana was ready to leave the hospital. They treated Dana without even knowing if we had enough money to pay for it. Their priority was on helping Dana, not on getting paid. We ended up only having to pay thirty dollars for Dana’s treatment, treatment that usually cost more than a thousand dollars in the states. What the Dominicans lack in financial resources, they make up for with love and compassion—something that some American (US) doctors have lost. After we arrived back to my apartment, I realized that my mother and sister had to come all the way to the Dominican Republic to have the best hospital experience they ever had in their lives.

Trip to Bonao

2005-10-05T18:13:00.000-04:00

October 3, 2005

So, there I was, a foreigner from the Bronx, heading to el campo. We loaded onto a guagua (bus) early Sunday morning for our journey up north to Bonao. Danielle, another Fulbright scholar, and I were the only Americans (US) in our group. We traveled with students from Movimiento Sin Aula, a section of la Escuela de Formación Socioeconómica y Cultural, where I am taking the "Ser Mujer Hoy" class.

On our way to Bonao, I gazed out the bus’ window the same way I used to glue my face to the train’s glass to see whatever there was to see in New York City’s subway tunnels as a child. Instead of rat-infested tracks and graffiti-covered walls, I saw lush, green mountains that reminded me of the mountains I miss seeing in Vermont. I am simply fascinated by the tranquility and the simplicity of rural life—both of which are non-existent in the hustle of city life.

When we finally reached the town of Bonao, we drove pass colmados, corner stores where people gather at plastic tables to chat and to drink Presidente beer. Bachata music resonated in the air while people swayed their heads to the music’s rhythms. Elderly women and men sat in front of one-room wooden houses that looked as old as the people who sat in front of them.

Then, all you could hear of the once-loud bachata music was a low hum. The paved roads turned into dirt paths, and green fields were now all that I could see. The guagua’s engine roared as it worked its way up the unpaved path. Suddenly, we stopped and unloaded where what seemed to me to be the middle of nowhere.

A man, wearing rubber boots, passed by on his horse, as we struggled to walk along the uneven, clay path en route to our destination. There was a steep hill that we struggled to descend. A few yards after the hill, we reached a stream that we had to cross to continue our journey. We waited in a queue to take off our shoes and socks. The water was cold but refreshing. I walked across the flowing brook carefully and slowly, partly because the rocks were slippery and unsteady and partly because I hate the feeling of anything under my bare feet.

A few yards later, after having had put on our socks and shoes, we were at our final destination. A guard dog greeted us with his hostile bark. We waited outside the make-shift gate of the blue house until the dog realized we were no threat. There was a young boy up in the guava tree which reminded me of summers in Antigua when Dana and I would climb the tree behind Grandma Vi’s house even though we were not supposed to.

After resting for some time, the group gathered in a semi-circle, and Ingrid, one of the leaders, introduced us to several families who live in the area. These families are part of a campesino group, fighting for the right to health and educational services. When we finished with introductions, we gathered into a circle, and Julio led a meditation session. Just being in the country is relaxing in itself, and the meditation was the icing on the cake.

Soon, it was time for lunch. We ate tasty rice and chicken that one of the women from the farm prepared for us over. When I entered into the kitchen to pile my plate with food, I realized that there was no stove in there. She had cooked a meal for twenty over wood. The food was delicious and tasted as though she had prepared each plate individually for each person.

We decided to go see the waterfall after lunch, which was not too far from where we were. The village’s water supply comes from the waterfall, and I realized afterwards that I drank this same water during lunch and am still not sick. After crossing two more water streams, we made it to the waterfall, and it was beautiful. The mosquito bites that I had acquired along the way were well worth it. Unfortunately, the unexpected rain shortened our trip. The clay roads were harder to travel while wet, but we made it back to the bus anyway.

On our way home, I stared out the bus as intently as I had done on my way to Bonao. I reflected on how difficult it would be to live in a place like that—a place with such challenging paths to travel and with no near-by hospital or schools. There seems to be nothing up there in the mountains where these people live; yet, they manage each day and make the best of their situation. Although they do not have many of the luxuries others have, they have the honor of knowing nature well and of understanding that humanity is not separate from and dominate over nature—something we need to realize before there is nothing left for us to enjoy.

Unrealized dreams

2005-10-05T17:55:00.000-04:00

September 27, 2005

The guard in front of the USAID office begs to see my ojos (eyes) each day on my walk to the hospital. He acts as though I am only wearing sunglasses to avoid eye contact with him, but the Dominican sun is blinding and requires some eye protection. I smile at him though, not to be rude, and continue on my way to the hospital.

I was more prepared for my day’s work today. I know that my task will be difficult, emotional, challenging, enlightening, and rewarding, and that is why I am here--to make some difference, even just a little.

This morning, a sixteen-year old girl walked into the small space we use to collect the patients’ medical histories. She is having her second baby. She said she knows nothing about contraception when Sabala, one of the nurses, asked her. A Haitian girl walked in next. She spoke Spanish but could not read or write well. Another girl we saw was not even in school. The fact that so many teenagers come into the hospital who are illiterate and who do not know about contraception is a problem. There is a need for better educational programs—health literacy programs, comprehensive sex education programs, and general education programs.

Someone once told me, “to educate a mother is to educate a family.” My friend is right. How could a fourteen year old who cannot read or write teach her child to read and write? Teenage pregnancy perpetuates a cycle of poverty and disadvantage. If the mother has little education, where will she find a job that will pay her enough money to support a family? Someone needs to do something to support teenage mothers, and even better, to prevent teenage pregnancy.

After my work at the hospital today, I attended a panel discussion of liberal women in politics at FLACSO in the evening. It was so great to hear these women tell their stories of hardship and of success. I left the panel, empowered by these women, and as I walked home today, I reflected on their testimonials, on the injustices they had to suffer, and on the hope they gave me.

When I reached the colmado (the corner store) near my apartment, I ended up talking to one of the boys that I pass everyday without saying, “Hola.” I usually avoid the men at the colmado because I hate how they always hiss at me when I walk by. I ignore them, as not to condone their objectifying behavior toward me. However, today, I said something—I must have forgotten my Dominican tigre repellant, and I am glad I did.

I learned that this boy, Mayo, who works at the colmado, is a teenage father. He is nineteen, and the mother of his one year child is only fifteen. Although he is no longer with the mother of his child, he told me that he had no choice but to leave school to find a job so that he could make money to take care of his baby. I listened to him intently, as he shared with me his desire to return to school. I urged him to stick to his dream and to return to his studies, but deep down, I know that he probably would never be able to go back to school because he will always have to work to support his baby. At the end of our conversation, he said that he lost his life, that he lost his childhood, and I left him, wishing that I could do more than just listen to him share his dreams.

The Beginning of my journey

2005-09-27T15:48:00.000-04:00

September 26, 2005

I forgot how much I hated hospitals, how much they remind me of past emergency room visits to see my twin sister who has had no choice but to make the hospital her home away from home. I have always avoided hospitals because I cannot stand seeing roomfuls of sick and vulnerable people at the mercy of someone else’s helping hands. I asked myself on my walk from the hospital today why I had neglected to remember my utter detestation of hospitals before pursuing my project.

I had to hold back tears several times, as I observed worried teenage mothers. I was helpless. There was no way that I could go back into time and change things so that they would not be where they are today—children having babies destined to a life of poverty and disadvantage. One girl could not even answer the questions the nurses asked her about her medical history. Her mother had abandoned her—she was living with neighbors, and the father of her baby is in jail. She pretended that it did not hurt her to explain all of this, but just as she pretended, I did too—I fought to keep tears from running down my face.

Doctor Consuelo, my supervisor, took me on a tour of the hospital that I was not expecting, that I was not prepared for. We walked to the lab where technicians tested the patients’ blood for HIV. The conditions were dismal, the machinery archaic. Then, she took me to a room where the smell of bleach dominated the air. A framed picture of la Virgen Maria on the wall stared at the room’s inhabitants—teenage mothers who had just given birth. The television enclosed in a gated box whispered in the background while the new mothers sat idly on their beds, passing time by staring into space.

After getting closer to the girls’ beds, I realized that their babies were with them. When the mothers were not staring into space, they snuck quick glances at the babies they do not know how to care for yet. “Dena, ven acá, mira,” Doctor Consuelo shouted. I approached to find a girl who had given birth to twins. She was only sixteen. One baby would have been enough.

I returned to the waiting room, the same room that fills up each day with teenage mothers. There was a girl who was crying. Her mother wiped her tears, as she stood over her. Although I did not know why this girl was crying, I felt for her and for her mother anyway. I held back my tears again.

My day was almost over, only to begin another day full of learning and of emotions. As I walked out, ready to begin contemplating about my day, Doctor Consuelo, who had exited the room with me, was called back in. I waited for her outside, trying to take it all in. She returned to tell me that a seventeen year old mother, 37 weeks pregnant, tested positive for HIV. She is only one of many. I proceeded on my way out the hospital into the Dominican heat, thinking that this is going to be an experience.

The progress of my project

2005-09-23T13:36:00.000-04:00

Last Friday, I attended a forum at INTEC University (Instituto Tecnológico de Santo Domingo) on youth issues in the Dominican Republic. It was so interested to hear university students from institutions all over Santo Domingo discuss the role of the youth in Santo Domingo. I learned so much just sitting there, listening to students express their concerns and present proposals to improve the lives of the younger generation in this country. I now have a better understanding of the reality of Dominican youth. I also had the pleasure of meeting some students who are willing to share their opinions on teenage pregnancy with me.

In a brief conversation with professors and students, I learned that teenage mothers are forced to attend night classes. Their schools ostracize them and do not allow them to attend classes with their peers. It seems as though the schools do not want the teenage mothers to give any ideas to the other students. The reasoning is the same when it comes to sex education—that is, if sex education programs are put into schools, students will be encouraged to have sex.

This belief is unfounded. President Bush happens to think the same thing and thus supports abstinence only education programs instead of safe sex programs even though the research states that abstinence only programs do not work. Although we probably all wish that teenagers abstained from having sex, that simply is not the reality. And, it does not help that the media constantly bombards us with images of sex. Instead, I argue that schools implement comprehensive sex education programs instead of imposing the president’s morals on them with abstinence only programs.

Not only are the pregnant and parenting teenagers in Santo Domingo forced to attend night classes as punishment, but they are also ostracized by their families. They are mistreated and verbally abused for being a “slut.” Clearly, they need more support from society instead of being stigmatized and neglected.

At the meeting, I also learned that most students do not have much to do after classes. Of course, those families with means could afford to sign their children up for music, sports, and other extra-curricular activities after school hours. As I have been saying for a long time now, after school programs and extra-curricular activities are important and necessary. Education policymakers, both here and in the United States, need to see the merit in such activities. The more extra-curricular activities a student does, the better he or she performs in school, not to mention that such activities empower and engage students, making them feel a part of something.

Moreover, I have finally been officially approved to work at the hospital. After weeks of going back and forth to meet with several individuals at the hospital and after presenting my proposal, I could finally begin working there on Monday. I have prepared a questionnaire to learn more about the relationship between education level, poverty, and teenage pregnancy. Although I am focusing my research on poverty and education level, I am not neglecting the many other causes of teenage pregnancy. For example, I am doing some reading on the sexual trade of girls, on machismo, on early marriage, and more.

Besides working at the hospital, I will also be taking a class, “Ser Mujer Hoy” (Being a Woman Today) to learn more about the reality for Dominican women. I am also in the process of trying to secure work at IDEV to talk to sexual workers about their experiences and their opinions on teenagers and their children joining the trade. If I have time, I am also planning to work at PROFAMILIA. I will also be interviewing several people and will be consulting with Professor Jacqueline Polanco of FLASCO. All in all, I am very excited about my work and am proud in all that I have accomplished in these past three weeks.

Dominican Piropos

2005-09-22T11:10:00.000-04:00

September 20, 2005

I am surprised at how many men I have given birth to since I have been here. Well, not really, but one would think that I am the mother of many if he or she counted how many times Dominican tigres called me, “Mamí.” Seriously, I am not your “mamí,” and my not acknowledging you when you yell precious nothings at me should send you that message.

I am also not your muñeca, your princesa, or your niña and I do not answer to “pssssp.” If there is something stuck in your teeth and you need to take it out, dental floss usually works well. And, no, I do not want you to be my “papí.” I lived without my father all my life, and I think I have gotten along just fine. Thank you for your offer.

Dominican piropos are a way of life here. The normal procedure is as follows: a woman walks by, and a man watches her as she approaches him. First, he gazes at her face, then her breasts, then her hips, and then after she walks by, her behind. Just after the woman passes him, he yells something at her: “Eres bella,” “Me refresca cuando me pasa,” and the list goes on. Most women never stop but men yell piropos anyway.

It is like they are conditioned to yell piropos. In fact, just as I was walking to the university this morning, young boys were “psssping” at me. They are Dominican tigres in training. In many ways, men seem to feel the need to hit on every women passer-by as a way to prove their masculinity.

My twin sister is pursuing a project on the effects of colonialism in Jamaica regarding sexuality and race. She is particularly interested in how the oppression and the demasculinization of Jamaican men affected their masculinity and sexuality. She will research to learn whether colonizers sodomized Jamaican men and raped their women. She is looking at the case of AIDS and closeted homosexuality in men and their need to prove the manhood every chance they get. I believe the same could be argued for any colonized country, and definitely, for the Dominican Republic.

Other than that, I will continue walking pass the Dominican tigres, who will continue to call me “mamí,” “preciosa,” and the myriad of other names that they can muster up.

On passing as una dominicana

2005-09-15T11:31:00.000-04:00

September 15, 2005

I am lucky that when I walk down the streets of Santo Domingo, my appearance does not shout, “gringa,” “foreigner,” or “Americana.” . My Russian and Antiguan blood has blessed me with caramel skin and thick hair that tells the history of my African descendents bought to the Caribbean by conquistadores. I resemble the mixed blood of Dominicans and thus do not have to worry about being approached for my American money because I am not rubia (blonde) enough to be americana. “Soy casí dominicana, I am almost Dominican,” I tell those who ask.

I explain that I’m from a barrio muy latino in the Bronx where the melodies and rhythm of merengue and bachata resonated throughout my building’s corridors. Growing up both black and white in the United States made me a part of neither group. So, I was dominicana or latina or whatever I had to be to call a group my own.

However, unlike most Dominicans, I am not ashamed of my blackness. “Somos una mezcla de indios y españoles,” (We are a mix of Indian and Spanish blood), one man proclaimed to me. I wondered why he did not mention the African blood that he and so many other Dominicans try so hard to conceal. Would that make him more like the Haitians that Dominicans loathe seeing in their country?

The answer is complicated and multi-faceted. To me, part of the black-hate stems from colonialism, which was further perpetuated during the era of Trujillo, and also from recent Haitian emigration to the Dominican Republic. In general, the Dominican psyche has been brainwashed into thinking that everything negro (black) is bad. For instance, women relax their hair to straighten their natural kinks, erasing their blackness. Their image of beauty is not brown skin, not wide noses, not African hair.

Even after the black power movement in the United States, black is still not beautiful to many people all over the world. Blackness still does not carry prestige or power. The whiter you are, the better you live, eat, learn, and are almost everywhere in the world. Years of oppression and abuse by European colonizers has robbed the indigenous and darker people of this world of their identity, dignity, and happiness. Unfortunately, racism still exists and we have a long way to go.

Crazy Americans with no Internet

2005-09-15T11:28:00.000-04:00

September 14, 2005

Americans (USA) are addicted to the Internet. I am too. We are so used to having it at our fingers tips that we do not know what to do without it. I have been sitting in an air-conditioned computer lab at FLACSO, La Facultad Latinoamericana de Ciencias Sociales, and have watched every American student come in here, annoyed and impatient about not having Internet access.

I admit that the Internet has delayed my meeting with the director of the hospital today because my laptop does not have any disk drive, CD drive, or other external drives. Thus, I can only save documents on to the computer’s hard drive and if I want to print something, I have to send my documents to myself via email. I will live though.

However, this whole ordeal has made me think about how Americans are used to so many unnecessary luxuries. For example, during my first week in the Dominican Republic, I showered in the dark with a bucket of water. Thankfully, I had spent summers in Antigua while growing up, which humbled me, and made me used to living in such conditions. After taking my bucket baths, I realized how much water I had left. Yet, we take long showers in the USA just because we can. Sadly, we can do many things than many other countries cannot do.

Besides that, I went to a presentation entitled: Answers to Globalization in Small Countries: Dominican Republic in a Regional Context. Dr. Sanchez Ancochea of the University of London gave the presentation and compared Costa Rica to the Dominican Republic. I was particularly interested in the how much less Dominican Republic spends on health and education in comparison to Costa Rica. Dr. Sanchez Ancochea expressed that the Dominican Republic, or any other country, will not progress or develop as well without investing more in the health and education of their citizens. Therefore, my work here seems imperative—a health education initiative preventing unwanted teenage pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases.
Other than that, all is going well here. I am enjoying myself and slowly am getting used to being called a researcher.

First Hospital Visit

2005-09-15T11:27:00.000-04:00

September 13, 2005

I followed my host mother’s directions to el hospital Maternidad Señora de la Altagracia. I walked there in the heat that only Dominicans know, pass men who shout pick-up lines, or piropos, to every women passer-by.

I knew that I had arrived at where I was supposed to be when I saw armies of pregnant women outside the building’s entrances. I entered the hospital and was greeted by more armies of pregnant women who stood in the corridor. It was complete chaos, pregnant women packed into all crevices of the hospital, confused about where they were to go, and annoyed about how long they had been waiting.

I asked a guard for directions to the Department of Adolescent Mothers. I felt like a mouse in a maze, trying to find my destination. Finally, I had arrived. Forty or more eyes stared in my direction when I walked into the small waiting room, all the eyes belonging to young mothers-to-be.

Consuelo Matos Ramirez, the psychologist with whom I will be working, suggested that I sit with the nurses who were meeting with the girls to complete their medical histories. The room was small; two nurses shared one desk, and teenage mothers sat at either end, answering questions.

“How old are you?” “Fourteen,” a pregnant child answered, her mother at her side. This girl was one of the only girls whose mother was with her. She responded to the questions shyly. She looked embarrassed, and the expression on her face told me that she was scared, nervous, annoyed, and confused. I wondered if she had been raped, but that was not any of my business.

While the nurse was talking to this fourteen year old patient, she explained to me that the doctors are unable to serve all of the girls that come to the hospital. She continued by telling me that the service they provide to the girls is not great because there are too many girls to see and not enough resources, doctors, or space. I was surprised that she had said this in front of patients, but I gathered that this is an understanding among the Dominicans, who do not have the resources to go to a private hospital. They come to el Hospital Maternidad anyway, not expecting the best service, but thinking that any service is better than no service at all. I saw two more girls after the fourteen year old—one 16, the other 17. One was single; the other unmarried, but with the father of her child.

All three girls that I had seen were put on the list of girls who had to meet with the psychologist because all girls under 17 have to meet with one. In general, I was surprised about how the nurses discussed personal information so openly. Nurses told patients their HIV results, had psychological consultation, and discussed personal information out in the open. There is literally no space for privacy, for anything at the hospital.

After spending some time with the nurses, I had to go talk to the director to ask for permission to do my research at his hospital. He said that he agreed with my work but that I must provide him with a proposal. I understood, as any and every one should not be able to do whatever research they want in the hospital. I am currently working on the proposal and am planning to go there on Wednesday to present it to him. I will let you know what the board at the hospital decides.

US Embassy Visit

2005-09-08T10:36:00.000-04:00

I spent all day in the Embassy yesterday on the phone with the bank. No one was able to help me because no one knew exactly what my problem was. After about an hour and after being transfered from Bank of America to Visa to Bank of America again, someone finally realized that past Fleet customers are having problems withdrawing money from ATMs abroad. So, basically, I will not be able to withdraw money during my stay in the Dominican Republic. In order to receive money, I have to call the bank from the embassy (because that is the only place where one could call a 1-800 number) and then pick up ¨emergency cash¨ from Western Union. I asked the women if she understood how unsafe that was. She did not understand. Basically, everytime I go there to pick up money, the teller knows exactly how much money I will receive. If the teller is malicious, he could give a friend some signal and have them rob me on my way out. Let´s hope that this is the worse case scenerio, but I have to be vigilant.

Other than my financial woes, I had a great time at the embassy nonetheless. The program manager at the office is a Middlebury Alumni. What a small world! Middlebury alums are seriously everywhere. And, my Fulbright program manager in the states in also an alumni of Middlebury! Other than my Middlebury bragging, the people at the Embassy told me what they tell all Embassy employees and Fulbrighters which is that I am representing the United States and that I have to behave in that way. Do they know that Bush is also representing the Unites States and is not doing a great job at it? They do not have to worry about me--seriously. Please do not get me started on the US´s response to Katrina.

In terms of project, I am in the process of writing a questionnaire to give to the teenage mothers at the hospital where I will be working. I have also been reading some newspapers and I have seen some interesting reports so far. On Monday, there was an article on the infant mortality rates and how the number is increasing here. There was also an article on the illiteracy rate in the Dominican Republic. The article also stated that the government hopes to start a program for adults modeled after the program that Cuba uses called ¨Yo si puedo.¨ To me, I think one of the reasons for this could be in the increase in the number of teenage pregnancies. For example, "the children of teenage mothers have lower birth weights, are more likely to perform poorly in school, and are at greater-risk of abuse and neglect" (www.teenpregnancy.org). We need to something here and in our country about comprehensive sexual education and health literacy. I´ll be sure to see what I could learn about this during my time in Santo Domingo.

I should get going but I will be sure to keep you posted on my discoveries, challenges, and adventures.

A Poor American in Foreign Land

2005-09-06T18:15:00.000-04:00

I felt as though I was in Santo Domingo before I left New York City. I felt the Dominican "heat" and sabor dominicana as I stood on line to check my bags onto Delta flight number 207. Everyone spoke in Spanish around me, as they waited with huge bags, probably full of "American" goodies.

When I arrived to Santo Domingo, we all rushed to pick up bags from belt 3. A man next to me played salsa from his mini boom box. I felt my body moving to the rhythm on its own. My body wanted to break out in dance, but I had to control myself. I was a foreigner in a strange land.

So far, everything has been great. I am living with a host mother and her two daughters thanks to Maria Filomena of the CIEE program who found me a host family. She has also allowed me to use FLASCO resources like the Internet and computers!

The biggest problem that I am having is that I cannot withdraw money from any of the ATMs here, so, yes, I am poor. My host mother had to lend me money. I am hoping that problem will resolve soon, but for now, I am a poor American.

Other than that, I will be working at a public hospital with teenage mothers who have HIV. I am really excited about my work. I am also hoping to volunteer at Batey Relief Alliance.Well, I have so much more to say but I have to limit my blog entries since I do not have too much access to FLASCO computers. I send much love.

A day before I leave

2005-09-02T00:30:00.000-04:00

My twin sister is sitting next to me, writing a thank-you note for someone who has invested time into improving her health. Dana is feeling well today, not perfect but better than usual. She is not trapped by her own body, not curled up in a bed wanting to be relieved of her pain, to be "normal" again. She is free today at least.

"If I had been in New Orleans, I would have died," Dana said this morning, after watching images of people begging to leave the drowned city they once called home. We laughed nervously because we know it's true and because we know every time she gets sick, we do not know if she will make it. But, she always survives. She's a fighter, so are we.

It is too late for Dana and me to be up, but she scribbles black ink onto white paper and I tap letters into a computer screen, trying to share my life with you. I have never even been one to keep diaries or to jot my thoughts down, scared that someone would read what I had written. Quite frankly, I don't know what has gotten into me to allow me to let you in.

I have one more day until I leave to the Dominican Republic where I will spend ten months researching with a Fulbright grant. I am nervous, and I have no idea what I am getting myself into. I have yet to finish packing but somehow, I will surprise myself and get it all done. I want to go on writing; however, if I continue, I will be more likely to forget something that I should bring with me. So, I will stop here, at an unfinished thought, until I meet you again in Santo Domingo.