I hope everyone had a good Valentine’s weekend! Mine involved an Aventura concert (with surprise special guests Wisin y Yandel) and pancakes with chocolate sauce. <3 Dominican concerts are always an interesting experience. 60,000 people (mostly females) spent the better part of three hours screaming at the top of their lungs. Lead singer Anthony Romeo kissed some lady onstage (who almost fainted) and offered charismatic heart-to-hearts with the audience on love, heartbreak, and other mushy things about which Aventura typically croons in their R&B-infused pop bachata songs.
Earlier this week I had a meeting at the largest health-related NGO in the DR. I wanted to know where they felt there are gaps in the knowledge about gender and tuberculosis. “You’re the first person to research this here,” they said. “We know nothing. So go look at health center records, create patient focus groups, interview health providers, and conduct house-to-house surveys.”
DAMN.
It feels good when you stumble into a research niche that needs to be filled – and when you believe that you can fill it. Believing is all it takes, really, and I have about four months to put that belief into action.
In about a month, I’m off to Trinidad & Tobago for five days; it’s the mandatory Fulbright Regional Enhancement Seminar, which means that all the Caribbean Fulbrighters get together and talk about their research while exploring T&T…exciting for me not only because I’ve never been there, but also because I have distant family connections to those islands. It also means that I have to prepare a presentation on my project. My goal is to have really begun the community portion of my research in earnest by that point.
After our seminar in T&T, it will almost be the end of March. Then there are April, May, and June. At the end of June, I’m headed back to the U.S. to begin medical school. I knew this was going to happen, but it’s approaching sooner than I expected…
The emotional and logistical insanity of the past two weeks – of life after January 12 – have solidified some of the lessons that I’ve been slowly learning here for the past few months. I thought I’d share a few of them.
Maturity does not necessarily correspond to age level. I have learned so much from my roommate’s 4-year-old son and his beautiful view of the world, and I have met adults close to age 50 who still don’t seem to grasp fundamentals.
There are people who may not speak your native language but with whom communication is easier than with many who share your mother tongue. Sometimes you don’t even need to speak.
There are times when the action you want so badly to take might consist principally of listening and learning. With patience you realize that these are also forms of action. Agency is multiplied by the hours we’ve spent silent, becoming increasingly aware of the scale of what we do not know.
It’s knowing how to cook that sharpens your appreciation for food and your understanding of quality, flavor, and the essentiality of eating well. I love to buy fruit off the street, especially from women, and the more food I buy, the more I love cooking. The closer I get to my food, the more I can feel it quietly affecting my health and wellbeing.
Sometimes the way we change is almost reptilian. In looking back at the past three years of my life, I don’t see a slow, gradual process; I see a series of leaps that left behind old shells to the point where I can barely relate to what I remember of my teenage self.
When we talk about love and revolutions, we can’t forget about the personal. Sharing someone’s grief or hope, being the tree of faith for another – these are integral parts of the overarching social change for which we strive.
Over the past few years, I’ve successively taken on personal work to improve my relationships with myself, with others in my life, with others not in my life, and now with the Earth and the environment. But without even realizing it, I’ve also been working on my relationship with words. I have grown closer and closer to the things that I write, so that everything I express is increasingly accurate.
I'm doing research! I mean that at the beginning of my fifth month of my grant, nearly halfway through my time here, I realize that I actually have data from which I am starting to subconsciously as well as methodically make observations, draw conclusions, and create a framework for my study in which I am beginning to fill in the pieces with knowledge. It's exciting!
And if you’re wondering about Haiti, I’m still working. I'm also learning Kreyol! I have always admired the beauty of the language, and recently I've found the means to teach myself, so that's another project I'm taking on. Please contact me if you would like details about how you can contribute.
After the initial flood of donations, however, I think the next most important thing that Haiti needs – that the world needs – is people who know their history, who understand structural violence, and who are versed in the vocabulary of global systems and their modus operandi. If you need a few titles to begin or continue your own education, I recommend the two extremely well-written books that I just picked up – Aids and Accusation: Haiti and the Geography of Blame, by Paul Farmer, and Taking Haiti: Military Occupation and the Culture of U.S. Imperialism, 1915-1940, by Mary Renda. The first is a rich ethnography focused on HIV as an illustrative example of how international politics and history affect the lives of seemingly “remote” or “disconnected” rural Haitians. The second is a wonderful text that incorporates discourses on gender, sexuality, race, and nationality to explore the history of the 1915-1940 occupation of Haiti by the United States.
What the world needs is people who know things. Listen, learn, and start reading.
Today I am inspired. From the greatest frustrations, pain, and insecurity can come the deepest motivation, love, and faith. Some of that transformation is a personal struggle, the individual journey that bears you from one point to another, but some of it is the direct result of the amazing and beautiful people I am lucky to have in my life.
One of these people was my roommate over the summer. I spent the months after graduation taking physics and diligently studying for the MCAT. Most days I studied or was in class for more than twelve hours. Summer in Williamsburg is a boring, eerie, humid heat that can drive you crazy. One of the only reasons I made it through was my roommate, an absolutely beautiful person who is now working in Yemen. After the earthquake struck Haiti, she told me that she was organizing a food drive in Yemen to raise funds for this little Caribbean country half a world away. But she said that Yemen is a poor country, that her boss had cautioned her against hoping for too much, that Yemenis couldn’t possibly have the knowledge or resources to contribute significantly to what is happening just across the border from me. But today I learned that her food drive raised $450 to be applied toward equipping the medical relief teams I am helping to coordinate out of Santo Domingo.
I felt such a swell of hope when she told me this. I hope that we learn to replace our charity with justice, that we trade in sympathy for empathy. I hope that we learn to have more conversations like these: http://www.conversationsforabetterworld.com/. I hope that we keep learning how to value each other’s individual experiences without losing sight of the collective whole.
Last night I went to my roof and I listened to Sweet Honey in the Rock, music on which I was raised. When I listened to this story, I was shocked to find that it was telling the story of what has just happened in Haiti. But it’s the way the story ends that inspired me.
I think that one of the most beautiful things in the world is the passion of people who know what they believe in, who know what they want to do, and for whom their work permeates every fiber of their being so that it is almost the same as living. I believe that German poet Rainer Maria Rilke was such a human being. But I’ll let you decide for yourself after reading the following:
It’s as though the entire world crumbled three days ago. It took 24 hours for the situation in Haiti to sink in for me, and I can point to the stages of awareness that slowly settled into my heart and mind this past Tuesday. By Thursday evening I was a nervous wreck, terrified for the families of close friends here, for complete strangers, and for strangers who may as well be family on this small, small island. When your heart stretches out to another, and that heart to another and another, then “seven point three” become words of importance, and everything becomes personal.
Within the world of public health, which of course is the world to which most of my close friends and colleagues here belong, there has been an immediate rush to the border. I am heartened by the health care providers and others I know who have dropped everything to find a way, any way, to get to Port-au-Prince. Among these is a person very near and dear to me, and I find myself terrified also for this individual’s safety. It is positively eerie that on the Spanish-speaking side of this small, small island, my little neighborhood in the Zona Colonial remains as tranquil as ever (ok, tranquil for Santo Domingo), while just a few hours down the road to the west, utter chaos reigns.
In order to stave off tears, I email. I email and call and write and pray and try to find as many ways possible to do anything, everything that I can from the Spanish-speaking side of the border. Everything is personal now, and it’s as though the entire world shifted when those plates did their underwater dance off the southern coast of this small, small island.
Some people say this is no time for thinking about politics, but everything is political, especially those things that are personal. It’s difficult not to think about politics when the same earthquake, if located in California or Japan, wouldn’t have caused nearly the destruction it has wreaked in Port-au-Prince, Jacmel, and the surrounding areas. If only the buildings had been up to standard. If only Toussaint had failed, then maybe the smarting French wouldn’t have been quite so harsh as to demand reparations FROM their former slaves. If only the entire world hadn’t placed embargoes and discriminatory economic policies at Haiti’s doorstep for the past 200 years. If only Haiti had kept the money it paid for structural adjustment and predatory international loans and used it build things up to the standard the West claims as the minimum for its citizens’ protection. If only the buildings had been up to standard.
Frankly, I can’t think of a better time to think about politics than right now, especially because thinking and action go hand in hand, and if Haiti needs anything right now, it needs swift action. So when the dust settles and the dead are buried and the numbers and names go filing out onto the Internet and all our newspapers’ front pages, the question that has been burning in the back of all our brains will come spilling out – and what now???
How about bringing back a democratically-elected President whose promises of what Dr. Paul Farmer calls pragmatic solidarity were too intimidating for the “developed” world to swallow? How about treating Haitians as equal citizens of the “international community” instead of as hapless victims with a silent history? How about pursuing justice instead of economic development (and thereby avoiding what Naomi Klein has called the Shock Doctrine)? How about encouraging the spiritual and social growth of a people oppressed since the very birth of their nation? How about seeing this as one of the biggest wake-up calls in modern history? How about acting and acting and never stopping until we get to Justice?
When your heart stretches out to another, and that heart to another and another, then “seven point three” become words of importance, and everything becomes personal. Everything personal is political, and so could you please lend, in addition to your money, band aids, blood, tears, fears, and hope, your solidarity? Your love? Could you? Could you be loved, and be loved?
I just got back from several days in Caraballo (in the northwest of the country near Sosúa and Puerto Plata), where I was visiting a friend of mine. It’s a small but complex community in spite of (or perhaps because of) its isolation in the midst of rolling sugarcane fields. My friend lives in the section of Caraballo occupied by Dominicans who are employed by the local sugarcane industry as guards or other personnel above braceros, the cane-cutters. Many of the homes there were built by the sugar company. Just adjacent is Batey Caraballo, the community devoted to the (predominately Haitian) braceros. Although Caraballo itself, with dirt roads and frequent apagones (blackouts), is certainly not the picture of luxury, Batey Caraballo makes it look like Beverly Hills. Most “homes” in the batey are one-room sections in long, wooden buildings. An entire family lives in each of the rooms, and there are no bathrooms.
Those two yellow doors are to some of the rooms that comprise families' "houses" in the batey.
About seven years ago, the sugar cane processing company here shut down due to finances. The vast majority of residents in both Caraballo and Batey Caraballo were thus left unemployed. Although many have sought alternative forms of work, the unemployment rate is still much higher than the already high national average. The situation has attracted the attention of various charitable groups, in particular a religious group from the U.S. The “help” proffered by this group is in the form of missionaries and volunteers who make short-term journeys to Caraballo and the batey. The presence and power of vodou priests in the batey makes for an interesting relationship between the community and foreign religious groups, most of whom fail to understand the complexities of vodou, such as that the religion is closely linked to Catholicism – a perfect example of syncretism. One of the religious group’s largest projects was the creation of Villa Asención, an adjoining community established to meet the need for adequate housing among the braceros. As such, residence in Villa Asención was restricted to Haitian field workers, with very few exceptions, who were perceived as the “poorest of the poor” and thus the most in need of assistance.
The dilapidated sugar processing factory in Montellano, a small town just down the road from Caraballo.
The newer homes in Villa Asención.
In December 2008 three men attacked a motoconchista (motorcycle driver) from the area in a robbery. He later died in the hospital. One of the offenders was from Villa Asención and of Haitian descent. This sparked a reaction against Villa Asención by residents of Caraballo, who had long resented the exclusivity of the housing aid. Although Caraballo is better off than those who live and formerly lived in the batey, many Dominican residents of Caraballo suffer the same poverty in similar living conditions. An angry mob from Caraballo entered Villa Asención and began to destroy the community. Terrified Haitian families, perhaps eerily reminded of the events of 1937, fled to the sugarcane fields, hiding while the people of Caraballo overtook and began to sell their homes. While many did not return, a few ventured back to Villa Asención once local authorities became involved in the situation. Some of those who returned were able to negotiate a fair price for their stolen homes; almost all ultimately moved on to live in other communities.
While walking through the various sections of Caraballo I couldn’t help but notice the ubiquitous evidence of charity groups – from the halfway completed concrete bridge with “Welcome” splashed across it to the handful of blond gringos who stood around teaching English out loud in disorganized groups despite the persistent rain: over the sound of fat drops in the mud, “Hello, my name is…” I’d been having some trouble putting my finger on what it was, exactly, that bothered me about it, but after spending a few days in Caraballo I suddenly found that I was able to explain it.
The halfway bridge.
The recent history of Caraballo is illustrative of some problems at large with charitable foreign aid. External groups too frequently seek to give, give, give to the poorest of the poor, with little consideration of the potential negative impact of their good intentions. While it certainly sounds good to those who are serious about making a difference to aid only “the poorest of the poor,” to ignore the economic class just above those is to ignore the complexities of poverty. To give without consideration of the unsustainability of charity is to keep the poor cast as victims and the donors as the only party with agency. What happens when a financial downturn dries up sources of funding? The poor find that they are still at the mercy of the actions of others. Real assistance consists of mutual respect and mutual empowerment.
The religious group in Caraballo also failed to understand multifaceted local politics; hence the raging mob that entered Villa Asención to drive out their neighbors and steal their homes in December 2008. Finally, I am frustrated with seeing poorly conceived charity projects that offer no real solutions to poverty and sometimes actually make things worse. I wondered if any of the happy church gringos had bothered to find out what sugar company had taken advantage of the labor of Haitian and Dominican braceros in Caraballo and the surrounding communities. I wondered if any of them were aware of U.S.’s economic policies towards the Dominican Republic and the multinational corporations (MNCs) that flourish here. I wondered if any of them had utilized their power as consumers and voters and attempted to hold their government or U.S.-based MNCs accountable for their treatment of sisters and brothers in the South.
I suppose my point is that you don’t have to have a fancy travel grant to make a difference, and if you do have one, you’re not necessarily any more likely to make a difference than someone who doesn’t. Making a difference starts with each one of us. I won’t apologize for the cliché because it’s true; once we understand how our own choices affect the people near and far from us we can begin to reevaluate the systems that cause global poverty and disease and find ways to combat them. This is the challenge I propose for those who still lack a New Year’s resolution. :)
After Christmas I had the spur of the moment idea to join some of my friends in Las Terrenas, a small town on the northern peninsula of Samaná, for New Year’s. So I stuffed my faithful backpack and jumped on a bus headed north.
Las Terrenas is a small, touristy town filled with (mostly French) expats and visitors. As such, the vibe freaked me out a bit at the beginning; on the upside, it’s easy to find excellent international food, such as the pizza we had on New Year’s Eve (most of the pizza you get in this country is mediocre at best and often covered with corn). Although the first day I was there was overcast and slightly rainy, I still ventured onto the beach. For New Year’s Eve we had champagne on the beach and a midnight swim under the full moon. The next day was gorgeous and sunny, so fortunately I was able to enjoy some beautiful weather before heading back to Santo Domingo in the afternoon. Highlights of my trip include absolutely breathtaking views from the top of the mountain over which you have to drive to reach Las Terrenas, some interesting experiences with transportation, and lots of singing, with or without accompaniment, and mostly while jumping around giddily in the ocean.
_____
2009 was good to me. In the past twelve months, I have felt proud, alone, depressed, peaceful, frightened, stressed, motivated, loved, inspired, under-appreciated, well appreciated, hurt, hopeful, angry, forgiving, complicated, simple, funny, liked, misunderstood, foreign, comfortable, uncomfortable, joyful, surprised, powerful, inevitable, creative, innocent, magical, adventurous, capable, disappointed, knowledgeable, experienced, inexperienced, accomplished, full, beautiful, frustrated, satisfied, exhausted, confused, insane, illimitable, blessed, awestruck, spiritual, happy, hyper, humbled, overwhelmed, and alive. A year ago I never could have imagined how much I would go through this year, and how much I would learn and grow as a result. Nor could I have imagined what lay in store for me beyond college. I have been blessed with amazing experiences this year, and owe much of that to others in my life who, knowingly or unknowingly, were the inspiration for so much of what I wrote, felt, thought, and learned in 2009 (Thank you). Thus another decade falls away.
So it’s 2010. This year I want to work on my relationship with the environment. I want to challenge myself to think even more critically about the everyday choices I make in order to minimize the space I take up in the universe. I want to reduce the resources I utilize and the energy I require, in all senses. And I want to start listening again to the Earth, listening in the way I did when I was small and closer to the ground. We have so much to learn from nature, and so many answers to the things for which we struggle are written in the wind and water and land that surround us, if only we paid attention. We take so much from our environment; everything we need to survive, in fact, and yet we give back so little. I think that nature has a lot to teach us about our relationships with each other, too. We would do well to give more without thinking so much about what we might (or might not) get in return, just as the Earth constantly gives to us. And the only way to apply these lessons is to really root ourselves in our environments, to respect and listen to the world around us, and to maintain our relationship with the Earth just as we work to maintain our relationships with ourselves and with other people.
Did you know that New Year’s Eve was a blue moon? That means that two full moons occurred in the same month. Not to mention that I saw a shooting star just before we headed back from the beach in the first few hours of 2010.
I have to admit that the past two weeks haven’t been quite as productive (at least, research-wise) as I’d hoped upon my enthusiastic return to the DR. Firstly, I arrived back in the country sick, although the generous efforts of a close friend helped me to feel much better in a hurry – including breakfasts in bed and mandatory naptimes. Once I kicked most of my illness, the oppressive (capitalist) spirit of Navidad, or Christmas, had taken over. With people clamoring to return to the countryside for holiday family gatherings I deemed it futile to attempt to plan any meetings until after the New Year.
Christmas was a bit anticlimactic – or perhaps I had unrealistically high expectations for the DR, since it is an historically Catholic country. Last night I headed out to the community where I’ve worked for the past three years with SOMOS. In the Dominican Republic, la Noche Buena (Christmas Eve) is the most important part of the festivities, which are marked by alcohol, alcohol, and more alcohol. I spent the night with the family of a good friend in Paraíso, where I happily tucked into a huge array of food: spaghetti, various pastelones (basically lasagna-like layered concoctions of eggplant, meat, and veggies), bread, and about three different types of meat.
Dinner was very laid back; everyone simply got a plate at some point and ate either inside the house or, more likely, outside on plastic chairs positioned in front of two different sources of deafening music. For hours bachata and Dominican hip-hop competed while I screamed into the ears of assembled friends and family to explain what a gringa in hiking shoes was doing at a Christmas gathering in the low-income outskirts of Santo Domingo.
Across the street at the colmado (small general store) on the corner teenage boys gulped cups of rum and beer, eventually joined by their female counterparts, at which point a very graphic form of dancing began (think high school Homecoming). Besides the ubiquitous presence of alcohol (even a very small twelve-year-old girl at the house where I was kept grabbing unfinished cups of wine and liquor, which didn’t seem to bother anyone), I noticed an unusual number of motoconchistas (motorcycle drivers) revving their engines up and down the dirt roads, and more than one fight broke out. Every woman I saw was wearing skin-tight, low-cut, very short dresses, and all the adolescent females insisted on picture after picture, posing scandalously in front of the Christmas tree.
The night ended with a car ride to drop off one of the girls who had come over for dinner (this was around 1am), at which point the drivers (the oldest daughter in the family with whom I stayed and her husband) allowed the squealing, scantily-clad teenage girls in the back (and me, in my jeans and hiking shoes) to spend fifteen minutes parading through the crowd of people spilling out a local nightclub. Interspersed were an astonishing number of motorcycles and more liberally-flowing alcohol. The girls giggled with excitement, while I was half-afraid that someone might try to snatch one of them away. They seemed oblivious to my concern and kept talking to very sketchy-looking strangers, which also freaked me out.
No matter the cultural context, I think that holidays are a time when you see the best and worst of a society. There are the beautiful cultural traditions that are finally given time to flourish and be appreciated. There is a sense of generosity, of high spirits, of love. Then there is the alcoholism and the resulting (intentional and unintentional) violence that often follows. There are the interactions of family members long separated. And there is a sort of magnification of tensions between and among people. The expression of disgust at some of the obviously (to me, at least) problematic issues in Dominican society/culture (or at least a particular subset of it) is a sentiment that I often criticize in others, but, infrequently, I feel it as well. This is not to say that many of these things aren’t present in North American society – but perhaps I am more comfortable criticizing my own culture than others.
I’m talking about things like the abundance of alcohol, the risk-taking behaviors of youth – particularly male youth – and the way women participate in their own objectification. Sometimes I have had to physically stop myself from laughing at the way I have seen women – of all ages, which can be disturbing on a variety of levels – dress, because in more than a few instances I have mistaken what someone intended to be a sexy outfit for some sort of ill-timed Halloween costume. At the same time, it saddens me, though I know that my conceptions of what is and is not appropriate are hardly applicable to people in a very different context.
Here again is the old battle I’ve had with many a friend over the past few years: where does one draw the line between cultural relativism and universal standards? Are there universal standards? How can we really understand others’ choices without knowing everything about their personal strengths and constraints? That is, how do we know when people have true agency? Choices are only free insofar as they are accompanied by a number of reasonable alternatives.
Upon returning to the Zona Colonial today, I noticed something else about Dominican holidays: the silence. I looked up several times in complete shock, and it took a few seconds to register that it was the lack of noise that was so mind-blowing. I cherished the planes of sunlight that dart on and off of old, colonial façades that rise up from thestone streets, broken only by barred windows with their bright flowerboxes. For once, the light was not filtered by clouds of exhaust and fewer frantic shouts interrupted my admiration of the scenery.
Now I eagerly await the arrival of many of my close friends – members of SOMOS who will be arriving in a few days and with whom I hope to celebrate the New Year here in the capital. After that I promise I’ll get back to my research!
By “home,” I mean the Dominican Republic. After four weeks in the cold continent to the north, I am finally back in the place where I now feel the most comfortable – my lovely Santo Domingo apartment by the sea. :)
My month back in the US was a whirlwind medical school tour plus a bit of family time at Thanksgiving. As nice as it was to have a break and see many of my friends and family in Virginia, I felt increasingly distant from my research and other work/life in the DR. Plus it is freezing up there.
Now back in the Dominican Republic, I realize that I’ve gained a better perspective about my life here. Firstly, the rapid passage of time and the fact that – as much lit review as I honestly intended to complete – I really didn’t get a whole lot done on my research while in the US, have made me realize how quickly and efficiently I need to move. Secondly, I’ve become more aware of the transience of this experience (like all experiences). Having toured several medical school campuses and learning about exciting curricula and potential new places to live for the next four years has made the future a bit more concrete for me. When I first arrived and settled into life in the DR, it was easy to pretend that this experience would be long term. In reality, though, three-fourths of a year is the blink of an eye. And if you saw my first entry, there is a lot that I hope to do and produce in that time. I am also more excited about medical school because of its tangibility, and I am thinking about my research in the broader scope of my career. Learning about future research opportunities in med school and beyond has helped me to better conceptualize the long-term import of my work here and how I might build on it or use it as a starting point to explore entirely new issues in global/public health and community development.
So now, with less than seven months before me, it’s time to crank out one of my long-term strategy plans, refine my to-do lists, and get the ball rolling again. Community-level tuberculosis intervention programs of the Dominican Republic, prepare to be evaluated on your gender incorporation strategies!!!
...As for everything else - poetry, painting, transnational feminism, photography, traveling - I feel an acute sense of disorganization. I need to figure out again how I will prioritize everything that I want to do before I find myself engrossed in mountains of pharmacology and anatomy next year. By the way, if anyone out there has tips for publishing poetry - i.e., finding appropriate venues for first-time publication and contacting editors - it would be much appreciated!
All the above is what I will call my gifts, thanks to Mayda del Valle. Since the holidays are fast-approaching, it's time to give them back to myself.
