I have been thinking a lot about my grandfather during my stay in the Dominican Republic. As a child, I remember my mother presenting several sides to her father. While much of it was good and spoke of how deeply our bonds of family connected us, some of what I remember came in the form of warnings. She would talk about how she had fled the restrictive Baptist culture into which she was born. Chafing from a young age against the precepts of predestination and the paternalistic approach to how you needed to be saved to be worthy of Christ’s warm embrace, she paid lip service to her parents’ faith only until she left home for college. The most educated person in her family, I remember hearing her talk about teaching her father how to read, and can still sense today how some of her drive for excellence was a desire to have more and be a more complete person than she saw in her father. I remember warnings in the car on the way to visits that if he said something narrow, overtly racist, or ignorant, I should try to respond with grace, and seek to enjoy the visit. I never remember feeling those same emotions of recoil that I felt coming from her. She also loved and took care of her father, giving him a place to stay and visiting him relentlessly in his final years. When we went to his funeral, I was afraid that I would feel little grief for a man I hardly knew, as much of what I did know seemed tainted by backwards beliefs and an antiquated world view. But at his funeral I also remember being struck by the true passion with which his pastor talked of his constant attendance at church. His dedication and years spent cleaning and maintaining the physical facility, and most of all, I was touched by the poems that my mother and his pastor read that they had found in his diaries. Simple in verse, they spoke of a love for his grandchildren, nature, and his church.
It came to me slowly that perhaps it had been unlucky that I hadn’t gotten much chance to get to know him. Among the few things I inherited from him were several thick flannel coats and his army handbook from basic training during the Second World War. I treasure those possessions. I also have always felt a deep willingness to forgive him for his faults. I do not know, but I feel it likely that many of his limitations were a reflection of the limitations he grew up with during the Great Depression. I can’t blame him for many of his misconceptions about the world and his readiness to blame others for the problems he had. I see many the same faults and limitations present in the rhetoric of the far right political movements in the United States today.
That brings me to why I keep thinking about my grandfather while I’ve been here in the Dominican Republic. The 108 year-old abuelo who lives with my host family is one strong reason. It is vitalizing to live alongside a man who has lived for so long and seen so much change in the world. More than that though, I think about my grandfather as I reflect on some of the limitations in the village here. The education system is crass and ineffectual. The poverty is deep and pervasive, every day people make decisions that will only perpetuate their poverty. But like how I didn’t blame my grandfather for his issues, I can’t help but think that this community is not at fault for their faults. I have learned here a lot about community and family, and how they use a wealth of social support and propensity for laughter to face daily hardship.
One thing that Barack Obama got so completely right about his meteoric rise to power and fame was also deeply involved in many of the reasons for the dominoes of Democratic politicians falling out of office after. He ran on a platform of Hope and Change. These two concepts are the lifeblood of communities all across the world. Here in Derrumbadero, they will once again have running water by year’s end, and the main street was paved last year for the first time. Each step forward is accompanied by a similar step backwards or sideways, but through it all the people rely on each other, their faith in God, and an underlying hope for the future. It is only when we let our conviction for change rest on unattainable goals instead of gritty realities that we lose the ability to connect our present circumstances with our potential for growth. Politicians in the United States have many powerful voices competing for their time and attention, and filling their coffers with dollars that dictate policy. In order to rise again as a party, Democrats need to counter Donald’s vision of Fear and Change by revitalizing their own of Hope and Change, and then work relentlessly at making small changes that show that hope. It is only when we look to the future as a place for us all to gain through concord and community that we can be the City on a Hill that makes up the core of the American Dream.
Thursday, March 23, 2017
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
An American Dreaming of a Better Future
History has a way of being conveniently forgotten by most people. We tend to live our lives in pursuit of daily, hourly, or even up-to-the-minute gratification. This makes sense, as it’s hard to set a longer term goal and then reverse engineer things to see how one could ultimately reach that goal with hard work and sacrifice in the shorter term. It’s even harder for a community, ideology, or government to do this. Examples of this type of amnesia abound and are easy to find, but hard to remember again afterwards. As a nation, the United States has learned over and over again that people who come here for a better future will bring with them fresh ideas, a strong will, and definitive contributions. I’ve watched the movie “Gangs of New York” four or five times just to remind myself of this fact: When the Irish came to the US in droves around the turn of the 20th century, they were treated as less than, as trash, and as the scum of the earth because of their origin, poverty, and their religion.
My family learned a few years ago a little more about where my father’s “clan” came from. They were a border clan in Scotland that wasn’t really wanted there, moved to Ireland, weren’t wanted there, and ultimately came to the United States around a hundred years ago for a fresh start. Just last year my mother got her genealogy done, and since she was adopted at birth, the information was a revelation. Turns out she is half European Jew, and thus I am a quarter. I don’t know when her birth parents came to the United States, it could have been a long time ago, but given that she is a baby boomer, it seems likely at least one of her parents came here during or after World War II in search of safety and religious freedom.
I am unequivocally American. I know this to my bones. I know this from how I talk, aggressively asserting my opinion and aggressively asking others to share theirs. I know this from how I think, my belief in capitalism, and my willingness to argue with but ultimately accept the differences with another American who doesn’t believe in capitalism at all. And most of all I know this because of my ability to dream; my understanding that while Manifest Destiny and the Monroe Doctrine have in them the sins of ethnocentrism and genocide, they also include a grandiose vision for a nation unbounded where potential is only matched by performance. We are a country whose driving creed is an idea, not a religion or ethnicity.
People who want to come to the United States often share these same urges, dreams, and beliefs. Many people whose families have been here for generations upon generations have had their dreams trampled and feel crushed under the weight of immobility. This feeling is genuine, heartfelt, and tragic. People who voted for Donald Trump because they saw a possibility for change were exercising what they have left of an American Spirit. They were sadly misguided, in that their spirit led them to support a man who pridefully abuses women and exists as a mirror for the darker side of our society, the instant-gratification section of our collective psyche that wants things to be solved by aphorism instead of nuance. I think of Donald as not unlike the leader of the Natives in Gangs of New York. His passion and desire for power far outstrip his ability to reason, and his followers, in his own words, would follow him even if he shot someone on Fifth Avenue.
As a country we have the substance and character to overcome his challenge. We have the ability to reach for something better. To reach for a dream of a society that has nuance, that values our diversity and recognizes that when we ask each other for compassion, we receive it. Throughout my time here in the Dominican Republic, in a poor rural village, I have been quietly prideful of all of the great opportunities we have in the United States. Here the vicious cycle of poverty extends from the capital to the boonies. The people who have ferocity, ambition, and drive succeed. But even in their success they have so much less material opportunity than many people in the States who we consider unlucky. As has happened consistently whenever I have gotten the chance to travel, I am confronted by some of the unfair and evil choices the US has made in international policy and international trade. But more than that, I am confronted by our immense success and ability to create. As a nation we have a work ethic and drive that is genetic and trained. When we accept the strivers from all around the world, our diverse nation is stronger for it. I am reminded nearly every day here of how much power and meaning there is in our slogan: E Pluribus, Unum.
My family learned a few years ago a little more about where my father’s “clan” came from. They were a border clan in Scotland that wasn’t really wanted there, moved to Ireland, weren’t wanted there, and ultimately came to the United States around a hundred years ago for a fresh start. Just last year my mother got her genealogy done, and since she was adopted at birth, the information was a revelation. Turns out she is half European Jew, and thus I am a quarter. I don’t know when her birth parents came to the United States, it could have been a long time ago, but given that she is a baby boomer, it seems likely at least one of her parents came here during or after World War II in search of safety and religious freedom.
I am unequivocally American. I know this to my bones. I know this from how I talk, aggressively asserting my opinion and aggressively asking others to share theirs. I know this from how I think, my belief in capitalism, and my willingness to argue with but ultimately accept the differences with another American who doesn’t believe in capitalism at all. And most of all I know this because of my ability to dream; my understanding that while Manifest Destiny and the Monroe Doctrine have in them the sins of ethnocentrism and genocide, they also include a grandiose vision for a nation unbounded where potential is only matched by performance. We are a country whose driving creed is an idea, not a religion or ethnicity.
People who want to come to the United States often share these same urges, dreams, and beliefs. Many people whose families have been here for generations upon generations have had their dreams trampled and feel crushed under the weight of immobility. This feeling is genuine, heartfelt, and tragic. People who voted for Donald Trump because they saw a possibility for change were exercising what they have left of an American Spirit. They were sadly misguided, in that their spirit led them to support a man who pridefully abuses women and exists as a mirror for the darker side of our society, the instant-gratification section of our collective psyche that wants things to be solved by aphorism instead of nuance. I think of Donald as not unlike the leader of the Natives in Gangs of New York. His passion and desire for power far outstrip his ability to reason, and his followers, in his own words, would follow him even if he shot someone on Fifth Avenue.
As a country we have the substance and character to overcome his challenge. We have the ability to reach for something better. To reach for a dream of a society that has nuance, that values our diversity and recognizes that when we ask each other for compassion, we receive it. Throughout my time here in the Dominican Republic, in a poor rural village, I have been quietly prideful of all of the great opportunities we have in the United States. Here the vicious cycle of poverty extends from the capital to the boonies. The people who have ferocity, ambition, and drive succeed. But even in their success they have so much less material opportunity than many people in the States who we consider unlucky. As has happened consistently whenever I have gotten the chance to travel, I am confronted by some of the unfair and evil choices the US has made in international policy and international trade. But more than that, I am confronted by our immense success and ability to create. As a nation we have a work ethic and drive that is genetic and trained. When we accept the strivers from all around the world, our diverse nation is stronger for it. I am reminded nearly every day here of how much power and meaning there is in our slogan: E Pluribus, Unum.
Monday, March 20, 2017
The Vicious Cycle of Education
I have been overwhelmed here by the complexity of the problem of education. It seems like a vicious circular highway where there’s an entry ramp every mile or so but very few exits, all with extremely high tolls. Because the local school is overcrowded, the kids come in two shifts, One for the first few hours of the day and the other after lunch. Every Friday the whole school has off for the teachers to “meet” and plan out curriculum. In total, kids in elementary school and middle school are getting 8-12 hours of school a week, and not even that if they don’t want to go to classes. Every morning at the youth center we work with four or five kids who, for whatever reason, haven’t gone to school that day. Never once have parents visibly checked up on this. There are 10 year olds who can read and write and are able to use the keyboard on the computers we have in the youth center with some alacrity. Typing away with one finger on their right hand as they makeamashofwordswithoutspaces. With a little coaching, these kids are able to copy out paragraphs from books, and I’ve even gotten a few of them email accounts and have them corresponding with Americans who came here to help build houses.
But for the vast majority of children and teens here, they don’t even know their own alphabet. They can’t write their own name, and they certainly couldn’t write down a sentence for you like “the dog is black”, in Spanish or English. It’s been an eye-opening process to begin teaching English to these kids. I’m less teaching English than I am trying to overcome a lifetime of wasted opportunity and learning that their parents, and the community around them has missed.
The schools themselves aren’t just ‘prisons’ in the sense of the American kid feeling bottled up and wanting anything but to sit inside on a warm May day. They are built by the same company that builds the prisons here. The 7 foot concrete walls surrounding the compounds are topped with barbed wire. The blocky inspirational art painted to the outsides of these walls does little to assuage the sense of blanked and bottled hope when the buildings inside are a bleak assortment of square concrete surrounded by trash-covered ground where kids spend more time at recess throwing rocks at one another than they do in class. The biggest benefit to school here seems to be that a few years ago they started providing lunch to the kids. This is incredible, but since they seem to not be feeding their minds, it’s still not all that good.
I have heard many an adult decry how “little kids are devils” or in Spanish “Los niños son Diablos” and then act as though that is the end of it. When you are being outsmarted, outwitted, and outdone by a 5 year old that seems less a matter of education to me than a matter of culture and parenting. In my first few weeks here, I was struck several times by the crying toddlers wandering the streets. When I would stop and try to help them out and give them care, I would invariably fail, and once a mother poked her head out of her front door to tell me to stop because the child’s mother was at work in a different town so there was nothing to be done.
These kids are all crying out for love and attention. There are quite a few who I have gotten to know in my 6 weeks here so far who come every day for simply a high five, and to use me as a jungle gym for a few minutes. I will ask them how their day is, and perhaps play them in a quick game or two of connect 4. The culture of letting children raise themselves here results in a continuation of the vicious cycle of poverty, ignorance, and blight. When a 14 or 15 year old girl is pregnant with her first child, and before that spent most of her childhood raising her little siblings, it’s hard to imagine anyone breaking out of the cycle.
But for the vast majority of children and teens here, they don’t even know their own alphabet. They can’t write their own name, and they certainly couldn’t write down a sentence for you like “the dog is black”, in Spanish or English. It’s been an eye-opening process to begin teaching English to these kids. I’m less teaching English than I am trying to overcome a lifetime of wasted opportunity and learning that their parents, and the community around them has missed.
The schools themselves aren’t just ‘prisons’ in the sense of the American kid feeling bottled up and wanting anything but to sit inside on a warm May day. They are built by the same company that builds the prisons here. The 7 foot concrete walls surrounding the compounds are topped with barbed wire. The blocky inspirational art painted to the outsides of these walls does little to assuage the sense of blanked and bottled hope when the buildings inside are a bleak assortment of square concrete surrounded by trash-covered ground where kids spend more time at recess throwing rocks at one another than they do in class. The biggest benefit to school here seems to be that a few years ago they started providing lunch to the kids. This is incredible, but since they seem to not be feeding their minds, it’s still not all that good.
I have heard many an adult decry how “little kids are devils” or in Spanish “Los niños son Diablos” and then act as though that is the end of it. When you are being outsmarted, outwitted, and outdone by a 5 year old that seems less a matter of education to me than a matter of culture and parenting. In my first few weeks here, I was struck several times by the crying toddlers wandering the streets. When I would stop and try to help them out and give them care, I would invariably fail, and once a mother poked her head out of her front door to tell me to stop because the child’s mother was at work in a different town so there was nothing to be done.
These kids are all crying out for love and attention. There are quite a few who I have gotten to know in my 6 weeks here so far who come every day for simply a high five, and to use me as a jungle gym for a few minutes. I will ask them how their day is, and perhaps play them in a quick game or two of connect 4. The culture of letting children raise themselves here results in a continuation of the vicious cycle of poverty, ignorance, and blight. When a 14 or 15 year old girl is pregnant with her first child, and before that spent most of her childhood raising her little siblings, it’s hard to imagine anyone breaking out of the cycle.
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Platano Power
The Dominican Republic is united like no other event could unite
them. It’s the international baseball tournament and they are hoping to
win again after the undefeated 8-0 run to the championship in 2013. On
my weekend trip to the capital, every TV set there and in the city of
San Juan de la Maguana was tuned into the tournament. Baseball is the
national sport (well, apart from dominoes) and everyone is following
along looking forward to the moment of victory.
Backing up a bit, the baseball team here is the shining gem in the community. Last year Bridges (the company I am working for here) got a member of the community to donate a piece of flatish land to the youth center they were building. After making it much closer to flat, they installed a backstop as well as cement stands on both sides. Though far short of even the most rundown fields in suburban US, it is unequivocally the nicest field in the area. Between the field and the 40 donated gloves, catcher’s equipment, and real bases, the youth of Derrumbadero have the most luxurious baseball set up for miles. And they play like a team that has won divine favor.
I’ve been to four or five games so far, and Derrumbadero has won every single one. The first game I witnessed I only saw the last three innings (they play 7 innings here), where we went from losing 4-3 to winning 7-4. The second, we came from behind 3-0 in the first to blow out the other team 17-10 or so. The third, I played first base for the first four innings, as it was the younger kids and they wanted to show off their Americano (my first game of baseball ever!!!) We came from behind 5-0 to win it 7-6 with two runs in the final inning. Next came a sunny Sunday game that gave me terrible sunburn on my legs but was worth every second of pain. We got down 7-0 in the first two innings and then suddenly turned on the power. By the fourth, we were up 8-7, and after getting up 15-7, coasted to a 16-12 or so win.
There are around 50 or 60 kids in the town who play on the two teams. There is little here in the way of adult supervision, role modeling, or attempts to build life-long learners out of the children. However the two managers of the teams are somewhat remarkable in how they run things. At once fun and firm, these young men are only a few years older than most of the players, and the same age as some of them. At 22 or 23, they are both part time students at a university a hour or so away. They keep track of the lineup, hold onto the extra baseballs so they don’t all disappear, and most importantly enforce team spirit and make sure the boys are all building each other up instead of fighting. One of my favorite moments watching one of the managers, Xavier, was when he got dressed down by the only father who ever watches (presumably because he had a broken arm, as I haven't seen him since his cast came off two weeks ago) because he had let two of the boys tell another boy that he hadn’t run hard enough for first base. The father insisted that teams don’t treat each other that way and that it was Xavier’s job to make that happen. Xavier took this lashing with his head held high and then replied that the father was right, he’d made a mistake, and it wouldn’t happen again. And true to his word, the next time something like that happened at a game that weekend, Xavier called a pause in the game, got the whole team around him, and told them they were one group and one family, and if someone needed to be told something like that, he would be the one saying it.
After the Dominicans came from behind 5-0 to defeat the USA, I admit I was a little upset, since I like winning. But I was also excited, for another win on the world stage at baseball would be great for the DR! I hope Platano Power takes them all the way to another undefeated championship!
Backing up a bit, the baseball team here is the shining gem in the community. Last year Bridges (the company I am working for here) got a member of the community to donate a piece of flatish land to the youth center they were building. After making it much closer to flat, they installed a backstop as well as cement stands on both sides. Though far short of even the most rundown fields in suburban US, it is unequivocally the nicest field in the area. Between the field and the 40 donated gloves, catcher’s equipment, and real bases, the youth of Derrumbadero have the most luxurious baseball set up for miles. And they play like a team that has won divine favor.
I’ve been to four or five games so far, and Derrumbadero has won every single one. The first game I witnessed I only saw the last three innings (they play 7 innings here), where we went from losing 4-3 to winning 7-4. The second, we came from behind 3-0 in the first to blow out the other team 17-10 or so. The third, I played first base for the first four innings, as it was the younger kids and they wanted to show off their Americano (my first game of baseball ever!!!) We came from behind 5-0 to win it 7-6 with two runs in the final inning. Next came a sunny Sunday game that gave me terrible sunburn on my legs but was worth every second of pain. We got down 7-0 in the first two innings and then suddenly turned on the power. By the fourth, we were up 8-7, and after getting up 15-7, coasted to a 16-12 or so win.
There are around 50 or 60 kids in the town who play on the two teams. There is little here in the way of adult supervision, role modeling, or attempts to build life-long learners out of the children. However the two managers of the teams are somewhat remarkable in how they run things. At once fun and firm, these young men are only a few years older than most of the players, and the same age as some of them. At 22 or 23, they are both part time students at a university a hour or so away. They keep track of the lineup, hold onto the extra baseballs so they don’t all disappear, and most importantly enforce team spirit and make sure the boys are all building each other up instead of fighting. One of my favorite moments watching one of the managers, Xavier, was when he got dressed down by the only father who ever watches (presumably because he had a broken arm, as I haven't seen him since his cast came off two weeks ago) because he had let two of the boys tell another boy that he hadn’t run hard enough for first base. The father insisted that teams don’t treat each other that way and that it was Xavier’s job to make that happen. Xavier took this lashing with his head held high and then replied that the father was right, he’d made a mistake, and it wouldn’t happen again. And true to his word, the next time something like that happened at a game that weekend, Xavier called a pause in the game, got the whole team around him, and told them they were one group and one family, and if someone needed to be told something like that, he would be the one saying it.
After the Dominicans came from behind 5-0 to defeat the USA, I admit I was a little upset, since I like winning. But I was also excited, for another win on the world stage at baseball would be great for the DR! I hope Platano Power takes them all the way to another undefeated championship!
Monday, March 13, 2017
Learning from the Masons
There is a lot to be learned both for and from the masons here in the Dominican Republic. Building something in the United States involves a trip to a well-stocked hardware store. Having wood is a matter of choosing which type of tree you’d like to use, balancing cost with durability. My New England born instructor of all things construction quickly taught me to pick up the smaller hardware before the larger wood so you don’t have to schlep wood all around the store. And of course, always stop by the contractors’ entrance for your free cup of coffee!
While building a house is fundamentally the same here as it is in the US, you need the same roof, walls, supports, windows, doors, and a foundation. But there are so many little differences. There are different size nails, but we don’t use screws, as there are no power tools. The one drill that the masons have uses a nail as a drill bit, and it’s only used for very small pieces of wood you don’t want to split when you nail into them. When choosing screws or nails in the US, you take the total width of your wood (say, 3”) and then buy something that is a little shorter (say 2.5” or 2.75”) so that the screws don’t pop out on the other side. While the nails here come in several sizes, none of those sizes have anything to do with the width of the wood you are using, simply how secure you need the wood to be. If the nails you are using poke through, either you don’t bother making it safer, or if you’re really feeling ambitious, you bend them downwards and upwards, roughly alternating.
There is strong ingenuity for recycling resources, and a strange stupidity in organizing supplies and tasks. We unbend hundreds of nails, making sure to get the most use out of all of them. And to save money, instead of filling the concrete walls with rebar to reinforce, the Dominicans use barbed wire stapled into the posts. The plywood that we use as a mold for pouring concrete was partially used when we started, and we use it over and over. Through our construction of concrete molds, we made sure to nail almost every nail in mostly, but then bend the last 1/8 of an inch over so that once the concrete had set, we could remove the nails (unbend them for reuse), and then pull the plywood out without ripping the nails through it.
The organizational skills that are lacking are quite frustrating from the American perspective. It is on the volunteers, many of whom have never done this work before, to anticipate where the masons are going to not think ahead, and try to get things done before them. Putting up a wall requires a bunch of steps, some of which take longer than others. Tacking in the barbed wire takes time, as does making the plywood moldings and reinforcing them. Carting sand, gravel, and concrete into a big pile and filling the walls with concrete doesn’t take as long, and neither does prying off moldings from completed sections. Yet somehow for every wall we have made through two different weeks of work, the masons instruct all the volunteers to focus on removing plywood and piling resources. Those of us who see the error in this thinking end up starting work crews to do the tasks that take more time under our own initiative, and often against resistance from the masons. It is a strange dance of having them needing to be right and in charge, but it being obvious to an American’s eyes that the process is inefficient.
There are other glaring examples of both ingenuity and lack of it. The Dominican soil around here is filled with rocks both small and large. Anywhere that the wall needs a few inches of concrete where there is no way to pour it in easily, we will fill the space as much as possible with rocks before adding tackier concrete that we’ve mixed without gravel. This way you can use less concrete to fill the space and still get a smooth(ish) finish. On the other hand, the masons insist on mixing all the concrete on literally the hardest to reach area from the piles of supplies. The piles of sand and gravel are right by the front of the house, where the dump truck could put them from the road. For some reason the masons insist on mixing concrete behind the house so that every wheelbarrow, bucket, and shovel of sand and gravel has to be carried the longest possible distance to a pile before being brought back most of the distance as mixed concrete to be put into the walls.
Not a day goes by where I am not made happy by the companionship and irresistible humor of my Dominican hosts, and also frustrated by the dearth of initiative and problem solving techniques. The whole thing epitomizes the American phrase of taking two steps forward and one backwards. Of course here, after you’ve done that, it’s time for a break to dance to some Bachata.
While building a house is fundamentally the same here as it is in the US, you need the same roof, walls, supports, windows, doors, and a foundation. But there are so many little differences. There are different size nails, but we don’t use screws, as there are no power tools. The one drill that the masons have uses a nail as a drill bit, and it’s only used for very small pieces of wood you don’t want to split when you nail into them. When choosing screws or nails in the US, you take the total width of your wood (say, 3”) and then buy something that is a little shorter (say 2.5” or 2.75”) so that the screws don’t pop out on the other side. While the nails here come in several sizes, none of those sizes have anything to do with the width of the wood you are using, simply how secure you need the wood to be. If the nails you are using poke through, either you don’t bother making it safer, or if you’re really feeling ambitious, you bend them downwards and upwards, roughly alternating.
There is strong ingenuity for recycling resources, and a strange stupidity in organizing supplies and tasks. We unbend hundreds of nails, making sure to get the most use out of all of them. And to save money, instead of filling the concrete walls with rebar to reinforce, the Dominicans use barbed wire stapled into the posts. The plywood that we use as a mold for pouring concrete was partially used when we started, and we use it over and over. Through our construction of concrete molds, we made sure to nail almost every nail in mostly, but then bend the last 1/8 of an inch over so that once the concrete had set, we could remove the nails (unbend them for reuse), and then pull the plywood out without ripping the nails through it.
The organizational skills that are lacking are quite frustrating from the American perspective. It is on the volunteers, many of whom have never done this work before, to anticipate where the masons are going to not think ahead, and try to get things done before them. Putting up a wall requires a bunch of steps, some of which take longer than others. Tacking in the barbed wire takes time, as does making the plywood moldings and reinforcing them. Carting sand, gravel, and concrete into a big pile and filling the walls with concrete doesn’t take as long, and neither does prying off moldings from completed sections. Yet somehow for every wall we have made through two different weeks of work, the masons instruct all the volunteers to focus on removing plywood and piling resources. Those of us who see the error in this thinking end up starting work crews to do the tasks that take more time under our own initiative, and often against resistance from the masons. It is a strange dance of having them needing to be right and in charge, but it being obvious to an American’s eyes that the process is inefficient.
There are other glaring examples of both ingenuity and lack of it. The Dominican soil around here is filled with rocks both small and large. Anywhere that the wall needs a few inches of concrete where there is no way to pour it in easily, we will fill the space as much as possible with rocks before adding tackier concrete that we’ve mixed without gravel. This way you can use less concrete to fill the space and still get a smooth(ish) finish. On the other hand, the masons insist on mixing all the concrete on literally the hardest to reach area from the piles of supplies. The piles of sand and gravel are right by the front of the house, where the dump truck could put them from the road. For some reason the masons insist on mixing concrete behind the house so that every wheelbarrow, bucket, and shovel of sand and gravel has to be carried the longest possible distance to a pile before being brought back most of the distance as mixed concrete to be put into the walls.
Not a day goes by where I am not made happy by the companionship and irresistible humor of my Dominican hosts, and also frustrated by the dearth of initiative and problem solving techniques. The whole thing epitomizes the American phrase of taking two steps forward and one backwards. Of course here, after you’ve done that, it’s time for a break to dance to some Bachata.
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
Poor is Poor the World Across
For about a month now I have been living and working in the Dominican Republic. Derrumbadero is a poor, rural village of around 3000 in the mountains in the South-West of the DR only a few short clicks away from the border with Haiti. With no running water and electricity only most days, and seldom on the weekends, it is a community that is poor in material wealth and opportunity, yet it persists.
One of the first things that I said to my new bosses was to authoritatively state that “Poor is poor the world across.” While aphoristic and null in literal content, it contains several veiled beliefs about humans that I have spent a lot of time here trying to unpack.
As an agricultural community where the houses lack any real privacy or ability to be secured, the men mostly spend their days in a series of Sisyphun tasks tending the fields and livestock while the women hover near the cookfire and the constantly stewing rice and beans without ever leaving the house empty lest some of their few existing possessions get up and walk away. The dance between constant friendly socializing and fearful protectionism is reminiscent of a stereotypical high-stakes socialite dinner party.
I meditate daily on the ladder that I have had access to in my life in contrast to the one they have here. For a few days early on in my trip I was torn by a problem I still see as unresolved: If I spend time helping and working here with some of the best and brightest, those who have the most potential and ambition to leave this village and head to Santo Domingo, the capital, in pursuit of work and opportunity and dreams, am I in fact contributing to the drain of resources from a place whose resources are already meager?
This brings me back to a few of the assertions inherent in the statement that “Poor is Poor the world across”. No matter the absolute value, anytime one set of people has less or more than another, it creates a gap which people seek to bridge. I have heard it said here (and is a quote from the amazing graphic novel Persepolis) that people only have so much room for pain before the only response left is to be happy. Here there is much to cause pain and much about which it is reasonable to be upset. The same is true for both poor and rich people all across the world. Part of our human condition is a state of constant comparison, judgement, and ultimately a journey towards self-fulfillment.
My host father here, Gonzalez, is a 65 year old man who takes joy in small jokes, and quietly exudes confidence, authority, and decency. He likely has had many reasons to be unhappy in his life, and certainly from my context has cause to be angry daily about the situation life has given him.
Instead, Gonzalez, along with many of the people here has responded to his life by finding joy. He greets each new day with the cheerfulness of a man who is feeding his chickens mere moments after the sun has risen. He straps on his machete, dons his rubber boots, and begins his daily care in the onion fields with a dulcet whistle. Each day ends with time spent around the warmth of a small urn arguing with friends about the relative merits of chemicals in agriculture, the weather, and of course, how I didn’t eat enough rice and beans at lunch.
One of the first things that I said to my new bosses was to authoritatively state that “Poor is poor the world across.” While aphoristic and null in literal content, it contains several veiled beliefs about humans that I have spent a lot of time here trying to unpack.
As an agricultural community where the houses lack any real privacy or ability to be secured, the men mostly spend their days in a series of Sisyphun tasks tending the fields and livestock while the women hover near the cookfire and the constantly stewing rice and beans without ever leaving the house empty lest some of their few existing possessions get up and walk away. The dance between constant friendly socializing and fearful protectionism is reminiscent of a stereotypical high-stakes socialite dinner party.
I meditate daily on the ladder that I have had access to in my life in contrast to the one they have here. For a few days early on in my trip I was torn by a problem I still see as unresolved: If I spend time helping and working here with some of the best and brightest, those who have the most potential and ambition to leave this village and head to Santo Domingo, the capital, in pursuit of work and opportunity and dreams, am I in fact contributing to the drain of resources from a place whose resources are already meager?
This brings me back to a few of the assertions inherent in the statement that “Poor is Poor the world across”. No matter the absolute value, anytime one set of people has less or more than another, it creates a gap which people seek to bridge. I have heard it said here (and is a quote from the amazing graphic novel Persepolis) that people only have so much room for pain before the only response left is to be happy. Here there is much to cause pain and much about which it is reasonable to be upset. The same is true for both poor and rich people all across the world. Part of our human condition is a state of constant comparison, judgement, and ultimately a journey towards self-fulfillment.
My host father here, Gonzalez, is a 65 year old man who takes joy in small jokes, and quietly exudes confidence, authority, and decency. He likely has had many reasons to be unhappy in his life, and certainly from my context has cause to be angry daily about the situation life has given him.
Instead, Gonzalez, along with many of the people here has responded to his life by finding joy. He greets each new day with the cheerfulness of a man who is feeding his chickens mere moments after the sun has risen. He straps on his machete, dons his rubber boots, and begins his daily care in the onion fields with a dulcet whistle. Each day ends with time spent around the warmth of a small urn arguing with friends about the relative merits of chemicals in agriculture, the weather, and of course, how I didn’t eat enough rice and beans at lunch.
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