On how human beings contribute to the well-being of our world

A Returned Peace Corps Volunteer who served in the DR from 1989-1991 wrote the following story. It was published on the official Peace Corps website in an archive of collected tales from Volunteers across the globe. I stumbled across it last week while living in a nostalgic bubble facilitated by good day of Internet. I got so wrapped up in Dianne’s story because I have had a similar experience with my women’s group and I am always amazed by how similar Volunteers experiences can be even when serving decades apart. With a quick Google search, I learned she is a professor of journalism living in New Jersey and found her email on the university website. I reached out, thanking her for such a brilliant literary contribution and asked if I could use her story for my own blog. She quickly responded saying yes! Her writing aptly sums up the beauty and nuance in this culture and I think you’ll love it!

Not Just Any Other Day

Dominican Republic

By Dianne Garyantes

I walked into the well-lit, freshly-painted office building -- late, as expected. This was the custom in the Dominican Republic; meetings always started late. As I entered, I wiped the mud from my shoes; it had been raining all day in the little village where I worked. A small knot of women in faded dresses and flip-flops was huddled in the center of a large meeting room. Maybe I had pushed the lateness thing too far, I thought, because they were waiting for me.

I had been asked by the local women's club to speak on a panel for International Women's Day 1991. When I was first approached to speak, I hesitated. This would not be a discussion about AIDS awareness or planning a community project. I would have to say something about life, about women, about who we are and what we could become. During my past year in the village, I had been humbled by the harsh conditions around me and the grace with which people managed to live. Families worked three harvests a year in the nearby rice fields, nurtured supportive relationships with their families and neighbors, and most kept three or four sources of income flowing into the household. Who was I to speak to them about life or who they were? I decided my talk would have to be a discussion in which the women themselves would rely on their innate wisdom and worth.

It was a surprise to me that the women's club was acknowledging International Women's Day. The women in the club usually came together to be social, to trade sewing tips, to escape from the everyday events of the household. They were not politically active and did not identify themselves as a subordinate or marginalized group because they were women. My guess was that I had been asked to speak that day because I was a somewhat exotic americana, not because I was a woman.

My first glance into the meeting room told me my instincts were correct. All of the other panelists for the day were men. Although I knew that in the Dominican Republic men were viewed as the ones who spoke with and for authority, it was still a shock. This was International Women's Day! The day was set aside to celebrate women and our accomplishments. I was filled with a new sense of purpose as I walked to the front of the room.

When it was the americana's turn to speak, I asked the women in the audience to list all the essentials of life, things we all need as human beings to survive. The responses came at a rapid-fire pace: good health, shelter, food, water, children and family, clothing, medicine, education. The list went on until the poster board I was writing on was full.

Next, we circled in red the items on the list for which women in the Dominican Republic were responsible. The answers this time came more slowly. The first person to respond said that women in the Dominican Republic were responsible for caring for children and families. Another hand went up to point out that women collect water every day for drinking, cleaning, bathing, and cooking. We realized that women also are responsible for keeping the family healthy and getting medicine when someone is sick. Women also make sure that homework is done and that children are in school every day. Meals, clothing, and cleaning and maintenance of the home are also under the responsibility of women. We continued to circle items on the list until every single suggestion on the poster board was surrounded by red. The air in the room became thick with stunned silence.

I felt exhilarated and a little dazed by the enormity of our conclusion. All the items on the list were the responsibility of the women sitting in the room. Women were making daily decisions and carrying out responsibilities that were nothing less than essential to life. They were essential to life! Our list, cheerful with bright red circles, affirmed this.

As in societies and cultures everywhere, men and women in the Dominican Republic share in the responsibilities for their families, communities, and country. The difference is that women are seldom acknowledged, celebrated, or rewarded for their contributions. The women in the audience felt this lack of appreciation every day as they ate last, after their husbands and children, and rarely, if ever, shared a meal at the same table as their spouses. Instead, they sat in the kitchen at the back of the house, taking quick mouthfuls of food in between serving and cleaning up after the others. Many of the women in the audience also were raising children conceived by their husbands outside their marriage. And many had been put down or ignored all their lives. Who, after all, was the boss? Who, after all, was important?

One of the women in the audience that day was Gloria, who worked two jobs as a nurse and traveled forty kilometers in the back of a pick-up truck for one of her jobs. She also swept and mopped her house each day, raised a young son, and helped cultivate bananas, plantains, and cocoa for additional income. When the community needed help raising money to build a school, Gloria organized collections in the local church and raised more than $300 for the project.

Idaylia, who was also there that day, had a disabled left foot, yet still started each day by collecting water for her family. This meant at least three trips to and from the village's water hole, which was a quarter-mile from her house. She carried the water in a five-gallon can on top of her head and, even with her limp, she barely spilled a drop.

The silence in the room was beginning to soften. Someone giggled. Someone else spoke. Soon everyone in the audience was talking excitedly, telling jokes, and laughing, including the men on the panel. It was thrilling to watch the light shine in the women's eyes and to see it reflected and multiplied among them. It was as though they all had been a team running a relay and had just found out they had won first place. We loudly applauded ourselves and sailed out of the meeting room feeling giddy, buoyant, joyous.

The rush of pride and sense of awareness I shared with the women that afternoon comes back to me at different times during my life today. I think of it when I need a reminder of how human beings everywhere contribute each day to the well-being of our world. This happens whether we are recognized for it or not. This lesson is one of the many gifts given to me while I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in the Dominican Republic.

On basketballin' with the tigueres

Dominicans love sports - and no, not only baseball. They also love dominos (definitely can be a contact sport), dancing (very intense cardio) and basketball (of which I know very little). I've seen Dominicans bro out and bond on the court and it looks like an interesting breeding ground for anthropological research, and one I've always thought about exploring in this blog. So many tigueres (Dominican bros) in one place, how could there not be a good story or insight into Dominican culture there. I've always found it fascinating how much camaraderie seems to come out of those afternoon pick up games, but basketball is to young athletic Dominicans as gossiping is to porch sitting doñas and I know my place, it's with the doñas. So instead of investigating the information myself, I went to an insider, Joshua (a medical student interning in Manzanillo this summer) and asked him to write a blog. Here's what he came up with!

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"My second day in the Dominican Republic was exhausting. Lauren and I (medical students spending the summer working with Bea in Manzanillo) spent most of the day meeting new people, inviting them into our house for Coca Cola and cookies, and trying to figure out how to take a shower in a three-room house full of strangers. By 6pm, I needed a break.

When I told my new Dominican friend/co-worker Victor that I wanted to walk around town, he suggested that we go to the “Cancha.” Not having a clue what a cancha was, I agreed nonetheless, and enjoyed a short walk from our house to what was clearly a brightly painted basketball court. Delightful.

To the readers of Bea’s blog: there are a few things you may not know about me (pretty much anything not written above). For example, I had pet newts as a child, who I named, but could never figure out which one was which. They could have been twins. Another detail of my life you may not be informed of is that I love basketball. Playing, watching, wondering what the game would be like if the players were allowed to put Super Glue on the ball.

I was thrilled to have discovered basketball in Manzanillo. Victor and I sat in the concrete bleachers along with about 50 casual fans. At first, the game seemed nearly identical to American basketball. The players had nicknames I could understand like “El Kobe,” “Jay-Z,” and “Peepee,” the last of which reminded me of gym class. The game was fast-paced, aerial, and fun to watch. Then I started to notice some differences.

American pickup basketball is less formal than a typical high school or college game. Players call their own fouls, but are more lax with some of the finer points of the game, such as carrying, travels, backcourt violations and charges. Unspoken rules of the game. In Manzanillo, this is most certainly not the case. The players call everything, including some questionable fouls.

The big difference however, is the reaction to a questionable foul call. In the United States, reactions are relatively muted and occasionally followed by passive-aggressive sniping. Typical interaction:

“Foul!”

“What? Are you kidding me?”

“Dude, when you hit someone on the way up, it's a foul.”

“Whatever. Take it. If that’s actually the way you want to call it…”

Often, the goal is to make the other person feel bad about themselves as a human, or more specifically, as a man. It is a complicated dance, fraught with read-between-the-lines moments. It keeps conflict subterranean, and the game moving.

Manzanillo basketball departs strikingly from this American tradition. The foul call is less of a verdict and more of an opening statement given to an unlicensed judge on daytime TV. Naturally, both of the players involved in the incident argue vehemently for their point of view. The remaining members of the team are quickly involved, siding with their player. Finally the bystanders are sucked into the vortex, some eagerly offering their opinions and others try to look casual like uncomfortable 13-year-olds trying to blend into the wall at a bar mitzvah. The arguments are loud and impassioned. The interesting part (to me) is how they conclude.

After the respective sides have shouted themselves tired, someone theoretically has to capitulate. Not being fluent in the language, I still—more than a month after that first game—don’t know exactly how this happens. But it usually does. Someone turns away their head, sucks in their teeth, and throws their hands up in the air, a gesture that indicates something along the lines of, “I will be buried and eaten by worms one day, but my spirit will still know I was right.” However, on occasion, both sides will entrench themselves so firmly in their opinion of whether or not someone stepped on the out-of-bounds-line, that they cannot recover. They have transgressed physically (depending on whom you side with) and proverbially the line of no return.

In these cases, the standstill is never broken like North and South-going Zax a la Dr. Suess, they remain at their impasse for eternity. The two players involved sit down in the bleachers, silently fuming, and the game ends. Hung jury. The festivities are over for the day, and lesser, spinoff, half-court games continue as the afternoon peters out.

Back to Day 2 in Manzanillo. I was doing my best to make myself transparent, when an argument broke out among the audience. It seemed tangentially related to the game, but the players continued without taking note. Much like the arguments I would later witness about foul calls, this one became heated quickly. People took sides, recruited allies, and staked their reputation on something I was having trouble deciphering. My disguise as a piece of bleacher failed spectacularly, when I was subpoenaed as an expert witness. Rubio! they yelled in my direction. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but I knew that I had to respond. The spectators quieted. After a dense silence, someone stepped up to me, and asked loudly and painstakingly, as if talking to their deaf father-in-law: “Lebron Chames, o Michal Chordan?”

Jordan. Hands down.

Perhaps the argument is just another Dominican sport."

On something good coming from a bad thing

Hello, 

It’s been a busy few weeks here so thank you to my most loyal of followers for checking in and reminding me to write!

Last time, I wrote about the tragic accident in my town and my students who died. Thank you to all who reached out and sent so much love my way. Your outpouring of love was unexpected and spectacular. As I've written some of you in emails over the past weeks: the aftermath included a busy few days dealing: reporting the accident, going over it with the team, learning how we can do and be better responders next time, reviewing mistakes made, amplifying our training curriculum, recruiting new first responders to supplement the team, etc. It has been helpful to debrief the accident methodically with the group, we have all come a long long way personally, professionally and emotionally. 

Since the day of the accident, I’ve been thinking a lot about how different cultures treat death, dying and trauma. I'm learning a lot about how we grieve as Americans and especially how cautious and nervous we are around people who've had experiences like the one I had. This is not the case in the Dominican Republic where someone is bombarded with thousands of friends and family members collectively bringing someone out from their pit of despair immediately after a death and for nine days afterwards. I don't think there is a right way, but this week, it is what I would like to reflect on: the cultural differences I've found between the U.S. and DR regarding death and grieving.

In America: When someone dies, it is mostly a private event for the immediate family and the public respects their space until they announce a funeral or memorial. Then, people are invited, usually weeks or months later, to celebrate the life lived. So much of what Sheryl Sandberg has written publicly after the death of her husband, Dave, has also helped me digest what happened that night. She writes: “I have learned how ephemeral everything can feel—and maybe everything is. That whatever rug you are standing on can be pulled right out from under you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirty days, I have heard from too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiple rugs pulled out from under them. Some lack support networks and struggle alone as they face emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong to me that we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatest need.” In America we lack a true support network for people who have lost loved ones. We have no public way of grieving and are expected to do so privately, silently and within our own family. We do not support people who have lost someone well because we don’t know how.

In the DR: A death here means a community event, a gathering of everyone in town, supporting the family for nine entire days after death. Once someone dies, they are placed in a casket and set in a room of the house with plastic chairs around them and family members weeping silently over the body. For the first day, people will come in and say a prayer for the body, greet everyone in the house, and make their way out back to spend time chatting and drinking coffee, eating and commiserating with each other. A back patio can be filled with as many as 100 people and close friends and family taking on roles to make sure coffee is flowing, food is prepared, flowers are selected and the body is kept cool (bodies are not embalmed, so someone has to buy bags of ice and put them in buckets under the body to keep it from smelling before the burial). As my friend Grayson commented after her town’s third funeral in one week: “Everyone just knows that their role is and what they need to do at a funeral. I go pick the flowers with Marieanela and we all know to leave Martiza alone while she cooks for everyone. Elcida is in charge of keeping the crowd well hydrated and Rafael always brings the truck to take the body to the cemetery. Pimpo and his brothers are the pallbearers and Olga opens the colmado. It’s a beautiful thing watching the community come together in such hard times.”

In America: People don’t know what to say to someone who’s relative or friend has died, which comes back to the support network part. As Sheryl Sandberg commented upon returning to work: “For me, starting the transition back to work has been a savior, a chance to feel useful and connected. But I quickly discovered that even those connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had a look of fear in their eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help but weren’t sure how. Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mention it, what the hell do I say?” I have found that so many people shirk away from confronting this pain straight up. And although the death is probably the only thing on a person’s mind, we tend to ignore it, talk around it and shirk away from the awkwardness.

In the DR: In Spanish, there is no good translation for the word “awkward,” which is telling of so many interactions I’ve had at funerals here. Instead of avoiding a family with a death in the family, you support them head on, overwhelming and showering the family with love and comfort, speaking bluntly about the tragedy. With so many relatives, connections and close ties to the community, funerals are a very normal and regular part of life. People have learned to cope with death because they see it so very often. Before serving, I had been to maybe a handful of funerals. In the past two years, I’ve been to over thirty. At a certain point, death is desensitized. I don’t mean that there isn't a gaping hole in my heart or feeling of true loss every time someone close to me dies, but we know how to get through it. Dominicans understand the idea of permanence very well. They know the pain won’t last forever. And they are pervasive. Death does not have to affect every area of their lives - their ability to compartmentalize is remarkable.

I admire Dominicans and their processes of grieving. They have taught me that life and it’s wonderful, tragic, crazy emotions are temporary - no matter how deep the heartbreak, how tragic the loss, how horrible the accident and how reoccurring the images are - it becomes more manageable each day, until it is more than bearable, it’s teachable. We can teach others something from our loss, support a community of people who’ve experienced trauma, productively manage our energy, and keep growing. So that’s what I’ll continue to do, join me!

And now for some short updates:

1) We threw Gissaury’s birthday party on the 24^th of June and it was a smashing success. Between all the soda, cake, popcorn, suckers, candies, cheese and crackers, swimming, dancing, photo-taking, goofing around and dressing up – we threw a birthday bash fit for a queen! Check out the pictures on my Facebook album here (and I’ll attach a few to the email, too!). 

2) And, our paramedic group has been gaining publicity, our latest event included a live 30-minute interview on the provincial television channel’s news and health segment. To check out the highlight (in Spanish), click here. 

3) And of course, fun was had by all 100+ volunteers who journeyed to the beautiful Samana peninsula for 4^th of July celebrations. We stayed in a beautiful house with a pool; ate lobster on the beach; had our fill of beer, BBQ and country tunes; celebrated the commitment we made to serve our country; and the showed the pride we have for our homeland. I never feel more proud to be an American than I do when surrounded by wonderfully eccentric Peace Corps Volunteers who’ve dedicated two years of their lives to promote an understanding of our culture while simultaneously working to better their host communities in a foreign land. #proud

Until next time,

Bea

Pictures of the week:

INDEPENDENT WOMAN HEAR ME ROAR

Patriotic crew of hooligans

4th of July with Grayson, Liv and Andy at our pool in Las Terrenas, Samana, we did well with out enthusiasm and outfits if I don't say so myself! 

Little Mermaid, Gissaury! Thanks for sending the wig, Momma, it was a huge hit!

Bea with her baby girl Gissaury! Notice the shirt I'm wearing, matches the theme.

Bea with so many children, who would have thought? 

Damn, the cake was good! 

Outfit change 

That precious wig!

Behind the scenes!

Famous! 

The crew after our interview! From left: Josué (intern), Juan (news anchos), Victor (team leader), Anny (first responder), me (jefa), Ronand (team leader), and Lauren (intern).