What a jerk!

First, a lesson from the ever-so-dependable Wikipedia:

In physics, jerk, also known as jolt, surge, or lurch, is the rate of change of acceleration; that is, the derivative of acceleration with respect to time, the second derivative of velocity, or the third derivative of position.

Furthermore,

Physics (from Ancient Greek: φύσις physis "nature") is a part of natural philosophy and a natural science that involves the study of matter and its motion through space and time, along with related concepts such as energy and force. More broadly, it is the general analysis of nature, conducted in order to understand how the universe behaves.

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In the last two weeks, I have experienced a jerk in my life in the Dominican Republic, specifically in the acceleration of acostumbramiento and socializing. A few great moments illustrate this.

We hadn't been riding in the concho for two minutes when it pulled over to the side of the road to let someone else in, who would be the fourth in the back seat. As she opened the door and got in next to Erica, the wind blew in and I turned away, my hand coming up to tame my hair. I looked at her as we pulled off, and my breath caught- I knew her! A young morenita, partially raised by my host family's grandma, we had hung out together at the funeral for an hour or two. She asked if I remembered her. "¡Si, claro!" My overwhelming emotion made the words rush and stumble out. Her eyes danced. We talked about what she was doing in the city and what we've been up to until Erica and I got out at the corner after Bon. 

Conchos, public transportation at it's finest, and Bon, icecream, which is always finest.

We walked into the farmacia to pick up the last of my prescription that had just come in. "Hola, I'm the girl that has been-" "¡Hola! What's up today?" The three behind the counter interrupted my introduction with smiles and handshakes. I was so happy that they remembered me. On the five minute walk home, we passed by two neighbors, one of which merely said, "Hola, pretty girls!" (it was okay, as piropos here are common, and he is old) and the other stopped to chat for a bit.

That afternoon was the most delight-filling one yet. I felt welcomed and accepted, known, a faint comfort of home. 

So I've been experiencing a jerk, a change in the acceleration, as an increase in the rate of my familiarization, which was an already speeding force, energy. And I think the word applies, as I am a part of nature, and how life works is part of how the universe behaves. I am entirely grateful and filled with wonder that nature is behaving so. 

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Bittersweet, Minus the Sweet

Today, I went with ISA, my study abroad company and group, to Jarabacoa for some eco-tourism and to La Vega, which means the valley, kind of funny because it's the singular form of Las Vegas, for la carnaval, one of traditions the Dominican Republic is known for. It was an extraordinary day, spectacular really. I rode a horse for the first time in ten years, a huge fear now overcome, somewhat, climbed a hill next to a waterfall, road around the countryside in the back of a sort-of-safari-like truck, enjoyed picking rocks from a river, and was thrilled by the costumes and customs of the Sunday afternoon carnaval.

On the way home, I decided to get dropped off at La Sirena, which is kind of like Walmart, in order to buy supplies for tomorrow at the orphanage, we're going to make a poster of the rules we established last week. I was confident, feeling comfortable enough to walk home alone! I know how to handle los piropos now. 
And I was just checking out when one of the most disheartening things happened:

Have you ever heard of the invisible white knapsack? 

To have unknowingly, it's really the best. But to have it knowingly, with a conscience, is truly the worst. 

I was checking out with my poster, markers and tape, with the 500 pesos in my hand ready to pay, and I had already said saludos to the cashier and told her that I did not have a SirenaMás card. Then a man with his family walked up behind me, and him and the cashier exchanged some quick language about targetas and efectivo, and he became angry. He said, "I saw the lady with cash. You should treat everyone equally," as he backed out of the isle and moved to the next.

I nervously watched him as he left, hoping he wouldn't turn his animosity towards me, for me towards me is more like it. I asked the woman if it is not okay to pay with cash, as she obviously hadn't let him. In a cavalier manner, she shook her head and said I was fine. The man said again from behind me that he had saw me pay with cash, and that he should be allowed to as well.

I turned and looked at him, he was avoiding eye contact with me. He was looking at his new cashier, face red, jaw clenched, lips pursed, visibly upset. I looked so sad, maybe a little frightened, too. 

I turned to my cashier, sullenly said "permiso," and asked her again if it was not okay to pay with cash. She explained that you may only pay with cash if you have under ten items. I turned to look at the man again, because I do have "a staring problem," like we used to say as kids. He muttered, "Hay que tratarnos todos iguales."


As I left, I became upset that he had made such a big deal out of this situation, with me, of all people! I'm the anthropologist that makes a conscious effort to understand the life-ways of the Dominican people, to see why they value them, to partake in them, and to value them myself, to love it all in a way that isn't through rose-colored glasses, to feel Dominican. I try to validate them and their culture, not walk all over them! He had it all wrong!



But then, wasn't it kind of a silly rule that you can only pay with cash if you have less than ten items? What if they're really expensive! What does number have to do with it? He didn't even have a cart. He must have had fewer, too.



Oh no. My heart sank. He was right, I was being favored and I hadn't even known it. It wasn't because I'm a female, because my cashier was a woman, and any non-straight orientation isn't acceptable in this country. I was white. That's why, and I still am, as I'm walking down the street towards my host family's apartment, feeling defeated. In what other ways have I been able to live easier here, unknowingly? I thought about my día de diversión, about the last six and half weeks, and I still have no idea. I need to be more aware of this.

I'm genuinely grateful that he called this all to my attention and that he is making his resentment for the everyday, seemingly tiny injustices known, acknowledged, as they are the little concrete practices that demonstrate the monstrous, underlying idea so many people are enculturated, or socialized, if you prefer sociology, into: white is better.

This guy is a hero, the kind people read about in history text books.

For more information on this appalling goody-bag, read this: http://www.amptoons.com/blog/files/mcintosh.html

For all of you extranjeros in the DR, please think about this, and don't let (really, it's make) this guy's efforts be in vain!
Sorry this is really preachy.

                                                                                                                            

Green Gem

La virgen de la Altagracia

On Monday, January 21^st, the Dominican Republic celebrated el día de la Virgen de la Altagracia, a Catholic holiday in honor of the country’s own saint/virgin (in my experience, this is a common phenomenon in Latin American countries). It was also the ninth and final day of the funeral of my host mother’s mom, my host grandma, if you will.

This day didn't go quite as planned for me, due to my previously mentioned past experiences, so naturally, it was as perfect and wonderful as a Catholic holiday and funeral could be. Explanation:

Growing up, I was a type A personality, or a green gem, as I have recently learned by a stroke of luck. Everything had an order and a plan, and I felt content only once those were made and followed. Ew…

A picture I actually took, jeez.

When I was in Perú, I was sixteen years old. I was confined to the houses of my host families unless I was with them. I was also naïve and young, so it was probably the best policy. However, I was lonely and sad with the first family, as they would often leave me at the house. When we did leave the house, and whenever I did anything with the second host family, it was always planned ahead of time. I felt pretty secure, as you can imagine.

I slowly began drifting from my type A ways in college, and during the summer of 2012, I traveled to Bolivia with my professor, his wife, and a couple other Anthropology students. Over the 12 week experience, plans were infrequently made and never followed. I had to ask each night, each breakfast, each lunch if we were to be doing something later that day. I need to emphasize: ALL PLANS WERE BROKEN. 

Musicians playing at an unexpected lunch in
el campo of the Copacabana peninsula, Boliva.

At breakfast, I might discover that we’d be leaving in an hour to go to a rural comunidad to talk about the town’s future archaeological prospects for an hour or two. Upon arrival, we would receive a lunch, and dance, and drink. Then we might talk about the said purpose of the trip for an hour, maybe. Then we’d do a surface survey, and eat a dinner, and dance, and drink until 10pm. This was a regular occurrence. As a mentee receiving 6 credits for this trip, I needed to follow my professor’s every whim. 

A site survey which included a lot of discussion
on future full excavations and tourism potential.

This lead to the deconstruction of my need for plans and for following plans over the course of the summer. I started out as aggravated, which progressed to being pretty enojada. But over time, I began to pack extra warm clothes for those cold Bolivian evenings, and toilet paper (formal bathrooms were kind of absent in el campo). I learned to talk to la gente, for hours, to get to know them and to let them get to know me, and it may seem odd, but this was hard to do when I couldn’t see the purpose in putting my energies there, in wasting their time, brainspace, in wasting mine. I created bonds. Later, after not seeing the people of this small rural village for weeks, I would stop in the streets of Copacabana to talk to them when they were in town running errands, because during those six extra, unplanned hours in their pueblo, we began to matter to each other. It was truly beautiful. I loved that. I still love that. I’m so proud of that. It makes my heart swell.

So, now I'm here. And when after the mass on Monday my neighbor asked me if I’d like to return to the apartment with her and my friend or stay at the house of the family for an unknown period of time and return with my host family in the late evening, I chose to stay. My first fleeting thought, feeling really, could be described as this could be treacherous. But then I remembered my desire to know the Dominican people, to create bonds with them that create more heaven color moments in the world. How could I do that, see that color, from my bedroom in an empty apartment, alone?

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An Orphanage

Yesterday, something happened:

I stood in a way I'm not sure I have ever stood before.
I was holding my folder against my chest, and I had to relax my muscles completely, move it to my side, when I realized I was clutching it, inappropriate for the situation.
My head was tilted down and to the side, lost in thought. It was like that for a while, unknowingly.
My lips were parted a little, and I'm sure my bottom lip was relaxed to the point of looking ridiculous, which usually happens when my mind is too occupied to be self conscious, when I'm experiencing.
My shoulders and chest were caved in. It wasn't lazy like a slouch, it was insecure, uncomfortable, and terrified, like a cowering. I usually stand tall, with my shoulders back, posture. What am I doing? crossed my mind.
My eyes were up, glancing from face to face in the room, slowly assessing the happiness of each person. 
And that smell came again, I almost gagged. It was the food from the kitchen. I can't bare to be in here another moment.


I was in an orphanage. It had 12 kids, ranging in age from one to seventeen maybe, and three Catholic nuns. The kids were there, because, as our teacher explained, their parents had either died or left them, or they had been violated. That last word made my stomach twist. I felt sick as we walked up to the door, where there was a dog with one eye.
That was the first time I've ever been there, in an orphanage, surrounded by people whose pasts are so entirely gross, so mortifying. I had a very physical reaction to the situation, obviously. I was clutching my folder and almost gagging at the smell of food.

But as my eyes shifted through their faces, I realized they looked happy. My ears tuned in to the nun's talk for the first time, "Aquí tenemos nuestra familia, es una familia." Religion. Catholicism. What I have rejected. It's providing life and love for these kids, it is so good for them. They look humble, like they might not have desires, and if they do, they are meager, few, and far between. The look happy, loved, comfortable. Religion is saving them. They believe. Do I? Do I need it?

I think of my parents. My heart swells, my chest feels like it's growing to twice it's size. I need to talk to them, now, to hear them, to tell them how entirely grateful I am that they didn't leave me, didn't violate me. It hurts to think that word. That they didn't die... The urgency of my need to talk to them intensifies momentarily.


And then I feel the overwhelming need to be here, in this room. To help, sure, but more to just be here. I would change. I might need to be here for four hours a week this semester. 
                                                                                                                                                                      
 

Serious attempt number one, a question and a name.

If I were to write,

to write enough to write a blog,

would I be righting a wrong?

This is serious attempt number one, in opposition to a few mind experiments, of writing a blog post. I want this, if I am to write, to be creative, eloquent, interesting, and relevant. That requires a lot of thought, which requires a lot of time, of which I’m not sure I’ll have in the subsequent months. But this is serious attempt one, on a Monday, an irrelevant repeating categorization of a period of time during which I have a free afternoon, evening, and night, for now, at least.

My primary identity for the next four months is an American exchange student in la República Dominicana, stationed in Santiago, attending PUCMM (poo-ka-my-mah). My on-the-side identity that also happens to be my long-term self-image is that of an anthropologist, a learner, a teacher, and a human. I envision, hope these two identities will be shifting in and out of the forefront of this lucha for right, through write, for meaning; that one be the other’s challenge in un intercambio that takes place in the soul, one soul, that of Caitlin, me, o Catalina, si prefieres. 

I'm on my way to being human, from being human, and figuring out what that means, for me and for my co-inhabitants of the world. I think humans are beautiful, as with life. Which leads to the name of this blog: The heaven color. The heaven color is so entirely difficult to describe, as I've tried for years. I first saw it on a school bus when I was 17, a good year. I looked at the window, rather than out of it, which really means through it, and I saw the color. It was a winter day in Michigan, so that means the background was a dim faint yellow-ish sun ray cloud piece of sky that had light blue, which may have been deep blue, behind that, but you couldn't really see it. And the window was dirty with dried dirt slush-y water that had melted from snow on the side of the road. So you couldn't really see out of it, or through it, just it, the heaven color. 

I next saw in on some of that melting slushy snow with dirt in it that was reflecting some of the sky.

So The heaven color is the name of this blog, because I don't know if heaven exists, but if it does it's there in that heaven color, and it's creating the beauty in this world. And this is all an integral part of being a human.


The heaven color can be seen almost every day in the sky from la isla of Hispaniola, and that's where this blog, The heaven color, is being started.