Top 10 Experiences

For real this time. 10, more or less. Why the sudden urge to reflect? Have I purchased a large mirror? Or is it the large number of comments I receive on my blog post when I reflect? (I’m such a comedian). It’s actually that I’ve completed more than a year in this country (though not quite a year of official service). Keep in mind this list is not binding, and I’m sure there have been experiences more powerful or memorable that are not popping into my mind right now, because I’m kind of hungry and tired (that will be remedied eventually, perhaps after my service).

1. The Cancha. Yes, remember waaaay back in training (many eons ago) when my friends Jenny, Cameron, Dean, and I, alongside a very motivated group of youths from the barrio El Chorro stalked politicians and companies alike, soliciting donations to give the community a mini-basketball court? From hours of walking, hauling wet sand from a dirty stream up to the river bank to mix with cement, getting sun burnt, eating spaghetti, sucking down cold refresco like it was our real job, fumbling along with Spanish, dancing bachata, and, at last, playing basketball in front of an audience of about 300 …the experience was amazing, their joy infectious, and the memory inolvidable (unforgettable).
2. The Shack. As I started out in my campo, I would walk to school every day and pass a shack. As the door to the shack was always closed, I figured it had formally housed a pig or two and was now abandoned. This idealism lasted a few weeks, until I saw two of my students leave the shack (roughly the size of the kitchen in our house in the states). Turns out 12 people live there- a mother, her grown daughter, and their collective children, plus the mother’s son who does not help out. What do they do for money? The mother finds work wherever she can, busting her butt every day to make maybe 200 pesos (less than 6 dollars) to feed everyone, while the grown daughter (who just gave birth) tries to keep the house from falling apart. Do they go hungry? Sometimes. Are they healthy, clean, well clothed? Never. Do the children go to school? Now they do. Are they surviving? Yes. But I wouldn’t dare call what the mother is doing living…she is fighting, struggling, pleading. One of my friends who visited donated some money, and we’re trying to move them to a slightly better house that will be built for free. Thus, another powerful memory is the first time I realized just how desperate the lives are that people I call my friends have to live.
3. “Alicia la linda!” Sometime in my first three months of service, walking to school, I was greeted by 30 children in what we could roughly call “physical education.” The teacher- my current neighbor- upon seeing me, started a chant which has followed me to this day… “Alicia la linda! Alicia la linda!” It has a nice ring to it, especially given that my name here is not Alicia like Uh-leash-uh, but uh-lee-sea-uh. So what did I do, confronted with children crazed with this chant? Well I ran up and down, giving them all high-5’s. Sometimes, that’s all you can do. I do believe that this was one of the first times I let my guard down in my campo, something I do now all the time when I’m playing with my posse.
4. No help. Also sometime in my first three months of service (sparing details given the varied nature of my readers) a 4-year old was abused by a group of boys ranging 8 to 12 years old. It fell on my shoulders to help both the 4 year old and convict the children who went to my school (I chose to have discussions with them). So what ended up happening is…nothing. Without an active department of family services, or police force, or strong school leadership, or really any social services, negligent parents and abusive practices have been left unchecked, souls have been corrupted, and, least importantly to everyone but myself, I experienced what it means to be utterly impotent, unable to help or do anything but watch people self-destruct. I would have titled this experience no hope, but if I start down that road, I might as will quit now; this experience is not limited to my campo, region, or country.
5. The loma. Oh, what a joy that first hike was. I believe I have discussed this before. Beginning with a pancake party and ending with somewhere between 20 and 40 (my memory fails me, as we’ve had several hikes now) small Dominican children and me, the lone Americana, climbing up hills, over barbed wire, through mud, dodging cow patties and crazed large animals, crossing streams, carrying children, getting really, really dirty, and shocked at the zero fighting for almost 3 hours. It was amazing, truly, and since, I have recruited Dominican mothers (and even a father once) to accompany us, and the party of troopers has expanded.
6. No habla Espanol. This one still sings my pride, as it happened last week. I was shopping with the principle of my school for maps for the school (as the school had no maps previously, and we were awarded a grant to buy stuff for the school, so that maybe the kids actually learn stuff). After I had been waiting for the principle at the store for an hour (she obviously had better things to do), I told her that the salespeople were not very helpful (customer service is not a strength in this country). She said “that’s because they didn’t understand you.” When the woman at the store told us we’d have to wait several hours to get the maps we had previously paid for, the principle decided that my time was so valuable that I could wait around a few hours for them. She then proceeded to tell the woman working at the store that I was a northamerican and didn’t speak Spanish very well, so she’d have to be patient with me. I’m not sure if it’s a sin or not to want to spit in a nun’s face, but that’s what I wanted. Excuse me, but if I don’t know how to speak Spanish, how is it that I’ve taught YOUR students to read SPANISH, whereas YOUR teachers and YOUR (limited) efforts have not succeeded in that area? That was obviously a very bad day for me, and I will remember that particular hurt for awhile.
7. Campamento Superman! While the whole camp was a joy, my favorite moment was when one of the boys I brought was tossed in the river on an innertube. Two of the stronger male volunteers had set up a line of muchachos in the river, and were systematically tossing them in the air with their inner-tubes, so that they would fly a little and then smack safely on the water. Turns out that one of my boys (the very same one who has this week been kicked out of his abusive home to live on the streets unless we can do something to help him) (also the same one who almost didn’t go because he didn’t have enough clothing and his mom was embarrassed) was the BEST flier in the bunch. He must have gone like 20 feet in the air, and the smile on his face as he was airborne made me, and makes me to this day, so glad that he got to experience being a kid for once. As a side note, next year I’ll get to help out with the leadership of the camp, as I really was moved by it. I figure, when you think something is worthwhile, it’s good to help it stay afloat.
8. Platanos. Last year, I got one of my favorite students (even though I know you’re not supposed to have favorites…they’re all my favorite) to start going to school. Even though he’s a little older (not sure of the age…between 6 and 8) he didn’t know the colors, the names of the vowels, how to write his name…nothing. He did know, however, how to tell if a cow was angry or happy, how to ride a horse, which flowers are good to plant, and, of course, how to speak Spanish. One day, his grandfather pulled me aside. I figured it was to ask me for money, as is the common practice here. So imagine my surprise when this poor campesino with almost nothing to his name pulled out a black bag with platanos inside. “For frying,” he said. I don’t know if he went hungry because of his generosity- it is possible- but I think our tacit understanding was that he was sorry for the way he had raised his grandchild, and that he appreciated my efforts. The plantains were delicious.
9. Documentation. Discrimination here is a bane of Dominican society (there, I’ve said it). There are so many Haitian immigrants and Dominicans of Haitian decent that are neglected, overlooked, abused, ridiculed, because of their nationality. By the way, where one is born is one of the very few things one has absolutely no control over (unlike the decision to discriminate). One person I know in this town, he has become a friend, has lived in the country for over 40 years; he’s raised children in the country, and works (under the table) to support himself. He had documentation which allowed him some basic rights, but in a hurricane, it was destroyed. He has since been unable to get documentation (due to said discrimination) and now cannot legally work, vote, receive government aid, travel without getting harassed…He is no longer a Haitian citizen, and can’t claim Dominican citizenship either. So he is a citizen of nowhere, one of the millions in the world. And what a waste! It’s like saying to 10 percent of the population- I know that many of you are smart and motivated and capable and a potentially great resource to the country- but I don’t care, and I will treat you worse than garbage.
10. Love. Coming back from my visit home was one of the most difficult things I’ve had to do this year. The night before my flight departed, I considered the feasibility of just not coming back. Needless to say, I did come back, and I was glad when, seeing a horde of my students for the first time, they all ran up to me and gave me big ole’ hugs. In this country, it’s hard to remember sometimes why it is that I’m willing to struggle so much, to fight every day and subject my body and my mind to such challenges. And then some kid calls my name, gives me a hug or a mint, offers to get me fruit, holds my hand, hugs me, and I remember why I came here.


So I apologize for the length, and commend anyone who actually finished this verbose entry. It has seemed in the past that my entries were unrealistically lighthearted, because I suspect that’s what people want to hear about. So you can expect more upbeat entries until the next time I decide to buy another mirror…haha. Hem.

Peace!
Alicia