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.
Showing posts with label Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stories. Show all posts
Thursday, March 23, 2017
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.
Sunday, January 1, 2017
A Retrospective Resolution - Carrying Around Luggage
Last year my New Years' Resolution was to make use of Scott Arizala's
wisdom about unloading buses. As a camp director for years he had been
frustrated by the lack of coherence and organization at his camp as kids
arrived on buses and their stuff was carted to their cabins. While the kids were doing get-to-know-you activities and eating dinner, the bags would all be brought to cabins. One or two
kids would "lose" their stuff for hours every week.
Scott hated how unwelcome it made the kids feel when they walked into their cabin and couldn't find their bag. For years he would remind staff on change day to be careful with the bags, but would spend his day all over camp while someone else coordinated the bag moving. It all changed when he got in the face of one young counselor who had made a mistake and the counselor cheekily replied: "If you care so much about the bags, why don't you do it."
So for the rest of the summer and all the years since, Scott has directed camp from the parking lot on change days. Personally welcoming every camper, and making sure no one's stuff gets lost. It may be a little trickier to deal with problems that arise with just a radio and a quick wit, but the kids feel welcome.
The lesson he taught (and I tried to internalize) was twofold: As a manager you have limited time, you can't be in charge of everything, and have to balance which things you do based on what needs to get done and what will give you satisfaction to complete. Secondly and more importantly, you will get better results from people if you realize that they may not care about the same things you do and calibrate your leadership accordingly.
Scott had many solutions available to him, and likely tried some or all of these:
In the end, he chose to take charge of the task himself. This past year, I tried hard to listen to myself when I got bitchy and either take charge of the project or task that was making me upset, try out an alternate method for fixing it like mentioned above, or let it go.
Scott hated how unwelcome it made the kids feel when they walked into their cabin and couldn't find their bag. For years he would remind staff on change day to be careful with the bags, but would spend his day all over camp while someone else coordinated the bag moving. It all changed when he got in the face of one young counselor who had made a mistake and the counselor cheekily replied: "If you care so much about the bags, why don't you do it."
So for the rest of the summer and all the years since, Scott has directed camp from the parking lot on change days. Personally welcoming every camper, and making sure no one's stuff gets lost. It may be a little trickier to deal with problems that arise with just a radio and a quick wit, but the kids feel welcome.
The lesson he taught (and I tried to internalize) was twofold: As a manager you have limited time, you can't be in charge of everything, and have to balance which things you do based on what needs to get done and what will give you satisfaction to complete. Secondly and more importantly, you will get better results from people if you realize that they may not care about the same things you do and calibrate your leadership accordingly.
Scott had many solutions available to him, and likely tried some or all of these:
- He could have added an object lesson to his staff training by having several of his staff's possessions get "lost" en route to a staff trip and then getting them to talk to the rest of staff about what that felt like (thus increasing staff motivation to do a good job with the bags).
- He could have created or helped another staff member create a more organized method for bag moving - like drawing chalk lines in a grid on the pavement for each cabin (thus adding agency to a staff member).
- He could have organized the registration communication with parents to include a request for color coded tape/ribbon on each bag depending on the child's cabin (thus showing parents his camp cared how their possessions were treated).
In the end, he chose to take charge of the task himself. This past year, I tried hard to listen to myself when I got bitchy and either take charge of the project or task that was making me upset, try out an alternate method for fixing it like mentioned above, or let it go.
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
A Story of Growth
Sometimes it takes a life-changing event to realize something that was always in front of us.
Yesterday I listened to a man in his 40's tell a story to an elderly lady while eating lunch at a diner. In his mid 20's he had gone on a skiing trip with his then girlfriend and a few other friends. After a day of frustration helping out his timid girlfriend, he decided to go on one last run with a friend who was very talented at skiing.
After taking the lift to the top of the mountain (for the first time all day) and banking into a few sharp turns and steep downhills while following his friend, he decided to try to do one of the trick jumps his friend was doing. He mistimed and misaligned the jump and instead of landing the perfect back-flip he saw in his minds-eye, he went flying head-over-heels and ended up sliding off a 40ft drop.
Ribs cracked, lungs punctured, hips and pelvis broken, he recounted going in and out of consciousness as they tried to stuff a breathing tube down his throat on the helicopter. Without the ability to speak, he finally coughed sideways and saw the teeth that had been lodged in his throat fly out the helicopter window.
He woke up again once before his induced coma - long enough to recognize a doctor in the ER as the shortstop, Pedro, from his middle-school baseball team. Pedro didn't recognize him because of the gore, but saved his life with numerous surgeries.
After talking in detail about his reckless decision and the debilitating aftermath, the man concluded with a simple observation - "I had been so reckless with my life up to that point because I thought no one was watching and no one cared. It was only when I woke up after weeks in a coma to see my friends and family gathered around that I realized people had been there the whole time."
By our very nature, we to slip into solipsism. We feel isolated and scared to face our inner wildman. But the truth is, people are watching, they do care, and what we do every day can help and effect those around us for the better.
Yesterday I listened to a man in his 40's tell a story to an elderly lady while eating lunch at a diner. In his mid 20's he had gone on a skiing trip with his then girlfriend and a few other friends. After a day of frustration helping out his timid girlfriend, he decided to go on one last run with a friend who was very talented at skiing.
After taking the lift to the top of the mountain (for the first time all day) and banking into a few sharp turns and steep downhills while following his friend, he decided to try to do one of the trick jumps his friend was doing. He mistimed and misaligned the jump and instead of landing the perfect back-flip he saw in his minds-eye, he went flying head-over-heels and ended up sliding off a 40ft drop.
Ribs cracked, lungs punctured, hips and pelvis broken, he recounted going in and out of consciousness as they tried to stuff a breathing tube down his throat on the helicopter. Without the ability to speak, he finally coughed sideways and saw the teeth that had been lodged in his throat fly out the helicopter window.
He woke up again once before his induced coma - long enough to recognize a doctor in the ER as the shortstop, Pedro, from his middle-school baseball team. Pedro didn't recognize him because of the gore, but saved his life with numerous surgeries.
After talking in detail about his reckless decision and the debilitating aftermath, the man concluded with a simple observation - "I had been so reckless with my life up to that point because I thought no one was watching and no one cared. It was only when I woke up after weeks in a coma to see my friends and family gathered around that I realized people had been there the whole time."
By our very nature, we to slip into solipsism. We feel isolated and scared to face our inner wildman. But the truth is, people are watching, they do care, and what we do every day can help and effect those around us for the better.
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