Lesson 2: Hanging out

I just met two great ladies: Milena and Gloria. They're small women, sisters, as one can guess by looking at them. Milena says she's fifty-four, while Gloria claims to be "around sixty," but can't say exactly. The younger sister flashes metal when she smiles, and the older one reveals little more than pink gums -- their teeth have seen better days (although I don't know when, in this sugar-saturated countryside). They have lived in Los Marranitos as long as each can remember, and currently reside nearby each other. Milena lives with her husband and one son; their other children have all moved away, but come back to visit. Gloria lives with her adult son. She is saddened when she thinks of her deceased mother and her daughter, who lives twelve hours away by plade in far-off Austria. The women clearly derive pleasure in each other's company. Gloria helped Milena answer my questions as I recorded census information at the latter's house, and then invited me down to her house for cafe and a visit. I am less surprised each time I enjoy myself over a capacity with some stranger. I am beginning to feel more at home in the houses of Los Marranitos. It's not that I ever disliked accepting the invitations offered to me anytime a woman noticed me strolling by her house, but that I am just now learning what one does once having agreed to stop for awhile. "Entra, entra," I hear as I walk through the community. The voice is usually that of a tired-looking woman, standing in her doorway or leaning on a broom in the front yard of her house. I enter her house, she busies herself with the coffee, and I explore in my mind subjects to chat about. I'm learning not to waste brainpower lining up topics of conversation, though, because the truth is that with regard to life and everyday experiences these woman and I really have very little in common. Women here cook, clean the house, wash infinite amounts of laundry (many times a week), procure food (for which their husbands give them money), make sure the children are looked after and provided for (for which their husbands often do not give them money), manage the family's income and expenses, and, often, work a few days a week -- when work is available -- harvesting coffee or beans. One woman informed me as I was collecting census information that "you want to call Miguel the head of the household because he's the man, but really it's me -- it's me who manages the household!" The woman's work is multiplied by the size of her household, which often includes extended family. Her work is also complicated by whether she can afford a stove and gas, or whether she cooks over a fireplace, a fogon, outside the main house. Most homes in Los Marranitos have running water, but this luxury was only earned a few years ago with the help of two well-loved Peace Corps volunteers. The Peace Corps volunteers were well-loved because they brought water to the town's people, and, moreover, because they shared in community life for two years. I enjoy each visit to someone's house here more as I practice stepping up to the pitcher's mound to lob a question or two, or as many as it takes for my host to swing, to get on base with the conversation. Usually, they can take it from there. It's not a matter of sharing experiences in common but sharing our individual experiences and creating a common consciousness -- what might more simply be called friendship. Just as I don't have to "figure out" how to overcome cultural differences to create honest, sincere friendships with people here, I don't have to figure out what to do with the "free time" that I find in between twice-weekly morning classes and daily afternoon ones. In both cases, I just need to appreciate the existence of the thing that scares me (be it new social situations with unfamiliar context or -- gasp -- time to think). I don't even need to worry about taking advantage of the opportunities offered by these new challenges, but just take them on. I think I can say honestly, now, that this highly motivated, best-when-operating-under-pressure product of America has a new appreciation for "hanging out." Gracias, I might say, a la Virgencita.

Lesson 1: Simple appreciation

The other day we read Buenas Noches, Luna (Good Night, Moon), and Ariela found in the illustrations every object that the narrative describes. I was impressed.

As I close the door of the biblioteca every day, it is as though I am closing the door on some chaotic mess; I close that door with a feeling relief and release. However, the time it takes me to walk from the library through the farm to my casita is long enough for me to reconnect with the good moments I share each day with my alumnos, my students. I shouldn't really call them students, even, becaues they are more like companions. These are the children who drop by the library, most of them on a regular basis, and denign to put up with my attempts to direct their play. The library is fairly well-endowed with supplies and is a great refuge for these kids. While I'm working with an individual, which so far seems to be the most fruitful method of instruction, the rest of the children don't hesitate to take out whatever they most want to play with -- bats, balls, Play-Dough, Uno cards, paper and crayons. They enjoy drawing flowers and houses, mostly two story ones divided into four rooms. Very few houses here have two stories, but a lot of the houses in our books do. The library quickly becomes a mess of scattered books and papers, crayons wherever you look, flying chalk dust-infused air, and children's shouts: "Tu! Ve!" The floor is instantly littered with remnants of art projects. I'm determined to take on garbage as my personal crusade. I'd like to impress upon my friends here the importance of not throwing trash, no matter how insignificant, into the roadway. So far, however, it's a rarity for even a child at the biblioteca to feel accountable to me for anything. Respect is, to a degree, a foreign concept in Los Marranitos.

My stomach is not showing much respect for my wishes, either, and I'm feeling a little traveler's sickness. It's pouring buckets and I've sat down to a cafecito back at the Finca. Lupe has gone for the evening and left my dinner waiting on the table; Pablo's out as well, so I'm left to contemplate the status of my stomachache and with the past week's successes. I also think about how I can be so frustrated, as I am, by something, my time at the school, that serves such a good purpose. I know that I have a lot to learn from this place and from myself before I will be a true, strong, educational resource for these apparently self-confident children. In the meantime, I'll keep reminding myself of the most simple things -- as those are what really matter.

Without me, Ariela would not have paused to find both clocks in the great green room of Good Night Moon. Had interested parties from the rural United States not supplied the library with paper, Franyi couldn't have cut it up into showflake-like patterns -- the waste of which we collected in the trash box. And, most importantly, if the Biblioteca Alta Gracia were not perched, in all it's pink and green glory, on the edge of this Dominican mountain, these children wouldn't so far surpass their parents in reading and writing skills, and countless stories would remain unread -- and untold.