"Wow, You Were Fat!": A Culture Study, Part Two

When I first moved to the Dominican Republic a few things happened almost immediately:

1. The small stock of Easter candy we had brought with us ran out, and I sorely regretted not shoving more bags of Cadbury Mini Eggs in my carry-on suitcase.
2. Goats officially beat out dolphins as my favorite animal.
3. I dropped about twenty pounds. (Impressed? My secret is a simple little formula: No Easter candy + several bouts of diarrhea=a new, skinny you!)

My mom brought her digital picture frame along with us, and our friends (once we made some) loved to watch the slideshow of pictures and see our family and friends back in the States, as well as my parents and me before we moved to the DR. And because of item number three listed above, their reaction to a picture of me was always, always the same—“Wow, you were fat!” 

They thought it was the funniest thing, and they never hesitated to point out my past chunkiness. Just like in my first post about Dominican culture, this might sound like an inappropriate thing to say, especially if you don’t know someone very well. But around here that’s the normal conversation. Comments that might get you slapped in the States just get a couple of chuckles here, if any reaction at all. 

Here’s the basic lesson for Americans in this post: don’t allow yourself to be easily offended when you come to the DR. People will say things that sound insulting, but that’s just the way their culture is. 

People usually don’t mean it in an offensive way, either. If someone needs to get the attention of a heavyset boy, they might call out, “Hey, Chubby!” When I first heard that I was mortified. I scolded the person who had called out, saying it was offensive and disrespectful. The guy showed me the boy who had walked up. He pointed to his belly, and, as a justification for his words, said to me, “Look, he’s chubby. So I called him Chubby.” 

…

Well, I certainly couldn’t argue with his logic. But for the first year or so that I lived here I tried to argue against his manners. I thought I was on some great crusade against rudeness. Every day I would remind people to say please and thank you, and I would rebuke everyone who addressed someone as “Fatty,” “Chubby,” or “Ugly.” Sometimes people would call out, “Hey, pregnant lady!” Or, if they weren’t sure if she was pregnant or not, they would carry on a loud conversation about her until the mystery of is-she-pregnant-or-just-shaped-weird was solved.

It isn't just directed at other people. My family gets our fair share of comments. Every time a friend of ours thinks that my dad’s hair is getting too long he will say, “Martin, barber shop,” every day until my dad goes to get his hair cut. That same friend once told me that I would never win a Miss America pageant. I didn’t ask which category I was falling short in; I didn’t really want to know. 

Believe it or not, I actually made some progress with my Polite Crusade. The employees of our ministry now almost always say please and thank you, and they address people in a more respectful (in my eyes) way. But after a while I realized that the person who was most offended by everyone’s comments was, well, me. And if I, the outsider, am the only person who has a problem with it, why am I fighting so hard against it? Maybe I should try embracing it for a while.

Don’t mistake this attitude with complacency. I won’t just sit back and allow the children and other people around me to be horrible to each other or to me. Neither, though, will I try to change them to treat each other in a more “American” way, because frankly, I don’t think we have it right either. The way I see it, the Dominican and the U.S. are on opposite ends of a spectrum, when really everyone should be in the middle. In the Dominican harsh words and insults are perfectly acceptable. You can comment on someone’s weight, facial features, personality, with no problem. Just last night at a church service a girl came up to me and told me I should have fixed my hair before showing up (thank you, friend, for the beauty tips). In the United States, on the other hand, you can’t say anything anymore without someone jumping on you for being offensive. People are getting in big trouble for the things they say, and now many people are afraid to say anything. That’s no way to interact with others. 

Instead, I will take the best of both cultures and use it to change the way I interact with the people around me. My American-ness will always stick with me; I will probably never be able to address someone as “Chubby,” and that’s not a bad thing. But my impeccable American manners have changed a bit. Remember what I said in my post last week about everyone living interdependently and helping each other out? I would say thank you every single time someone would do something to help me (which is a lot). One evening after thanking my friend Negra for what was probably the hundredth time for helping me wash the dishes, sweep the floor, cook the food, etc., she turned to me and said. “You know, now that we know each other well you don’t have to say thank you anymore.” Every time I would say thank you after that she would give me a look that made me bite my tongue. Now I hardly ever say thank you to her. At first it felt rude; she helps me so much and I want her to know I appreciate it! But after a while it kind of feels even better to not say thank you. We know each other well enough to appreciate each other and be thankful for what the other does without ever saying anything. It feels like a new step of friendship. Maybe I’m overanalyzing a simple “thank you,” but maybe what we say or don’t say really does matter.

Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, people do still let me know if I have put on a few pounds. It happened just last week. Who needs a scale to keep track of your weight when you have your neighbors!?

What's Mine Is Everybody's: A Culture Study, Part One

“You weren’t going to use that can of peas, were you?” My neighbor walks in unannounced and heads straight to the shelf in my kitchen. She picks up the can of peas and starts to walk toward the door again before I have a chance to tell her, “Of course not, please take them!” To most if not all of you, this probably looks really rude. But that’s the thing about culture—something that is unacceptable in one culture is completely normal in another.

A lot of hurt relationships and miscommunication can happen when we aren’t aware of each other’s culture. I personally believe that all cultures should be celebrated; but more importantly, I believe that all cultures have a right to be learned and understood. No culture is inherently better or worse than another. Even though there are days in which Dominican culture drives me crazy, there are other days where I feel very privileged to be experiencing it. And so, to celebrate the Dominican culture as well as help others understand it better, I have decided to write a three-part post on some of bigger aspects of Dominican culture, specifically the culture of the bateyes. Today my focus will be on material possessions.

We Americans tend to be very possessive of our possessions. We take pride in the things we have been able to earn for ourselves, like our cars, televisions, houses, etc. If someone wants to use our possessions, the correct thing to do is to ask permission first, take proper care of the item, and then return the item back to its owner in a timely fashion. Our system is polite, respectful, and orderly.

And it is completely irrelevant in the Dominican Republic.

In the Dominican, if you have something then it is meant to be shared. I noticed this especially after I moved to Batey 7. My neighbors would constantly come in and sort of ask but actually just take things in my house to use. If I hadn’t already lived in the DR for over a year this probably would have bothered me a lot. But I understand now that this is the rhythm of life.

Why is this aspect of culture so drastically different from the culture in the United States or other developed countries? I think it is derived mostly from economic status. Many people in the batey can’t afford to buy everything they need or want, so they live interdependently with their neighbors to meet their needs. Maybe I have some rice and my neighbor has some beans. Separately we wouldn’t be able to make much of a meal but together we can whip up something that is both delicious and sufficient to feed both our families.

The same thing happens when people walk in and take my stuff. It’s not as if they are just constantly stealing my things; living in such an interdependent community means a lot of give and take. Sure, my neighbor took my peas, but she was using them to make enough food to give to me as well. I traded my can of peas for a prepared, home-cooked meal (and honestly, I think I came out on top with that one).

One day a friend walked into my house while I was next door and took a bucket I had because he needed to carry some plantains. He returned it a little while later without saying please or thank you. It wasn’t rude; I had a bucket that I wasn’t currently using and he needed a bucket in that moment. The logic is as simple as that. And plus, I would be taking my empty jugs to his house later that day to use his tap to refill my water supply since I don’t have my own tap. Give and take.

I am constantly loaning my flashlight to my friends so they can shower when the electricity is off, but they let me use their washing machine to wash my clothes. I let them borrow clothespins and take drinking water, and they let me use their fridge. When the power is off we use my computer to watch movies, and when the power is on we go to my friend’s house to watch her television. Working together we have a better quality of life than we would if we were alone. On reflection, maybe that’s why people play their music so loudly here—they are providing music for those who can’t afford to buy gigantic speakers. Or maybe they just like their music loud. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s it.

This give and take shouldn’t become some sort of competition or judgment, however. In my American mind I want everything to be fair and even. If my neighbor gives me things I want to repay her in kind. I don’t want to feel like I owe her anything or that she is giving too much of herself while I am not giving enough. This can start a maddening sort of list in your head in which you weigh out everything given and received and try to work out who is “winning” or if you need to give more. That’s not the point, and it’s also not healthy. Maybe today you have more to offer than your neighbor does, and you should give freely. Tomorrow might bring hard times for you and your neighbor will be able to give more. It’s not a game to keep track of. You have received freely, and so you should freely give. 

A couple of years ago I would have hated this lifestyle of interdependency. I was very possessive of the things I owned (especially my food!) and I also didn’t like having to depend on other people to meet my needs. Those two attitudes aren’t wrong; they are just a different way of living. There is definitely something to be said for independence. I still enjoy my independence by living by myself and taking some alone time every now and then. And maybe I have a secret stash of cookies to share with me, myself and I. Is that so wrong?

But Dominican culture has changed me. It has challenged me to think differently and to act differently. I hold onto my belongings more loosely, and I ask for help more willingly. I see life as a beautiful sort of dance, and I love to watch the people around me living life together, and including me in it as well.

This aspect of Dominican culture reminds me of the verse in Acts about the early Church: “All the believers were together and had everything in common” (Acts 2:44). That is a pretty accurate description of life here. We are together and have everything in common. What’s mine is everybody’s and what is everybody’s is mine.

Except for those cookies…

The Soccer Game

I love Batey 7; I love the people in Batey 7, and I want you to share with you my experiences in this community so that you love them too. Since we have a lot of time and not a lot of electricity, sports is how people pass many of the cool evening hours. And by some fluke of the universe, they have actually invited me to play too (actually the real reason is that I am one of the only people in Batey 7 who owns a ball pump, so when they would come to ask me to inflate their ball it was just too awkward not to invite me; but after a while their pity invites became real invites when they saw my impressive skills—no wait, that can’t be right either). So for your entertainment I have written a composite of several soccer games that I have played. I hope you enjoy reading about them as much as I enjoyed playing in them.

“Aren’t you going to play soccer?” The girls ask me as they pass by my house. My heart leaps at the thought of having friends for the next couple of hours—friends who are older than two and won’t decide to pick up all the puzzle boxes in my house and pour the pieces onto the floor; friends who are older than eight and won’t want to play a memory matching game for three hours straight and then tell me I’m mopping my floor the wrong way—but I contain my excitement with a simple smile and an “Ok!” After I inflate their ball I strap on my cool-but-rarely-used orange running shoes that I use either when I work out or have to kill a spider. We walk together down my street to the “Play,” the big empty piece of land that we play on (get it?). Already a crowd of kids have formed, all wanting to be on a team. We mill about in the center of the field while several people spend a half an hour placing the orange cones that represent the goal posts in the exact correct position. There is a lot of arguing involved, but eventually the dispute is settled and the cones are placed, only for a five-year-old looking for mischief to come up and move the cones as soon as the older kids walk away.

Today we play girls versus boys, though we have picked teams in previous games. The Dominican Republic is the only country in which I consistently get chosen first in sports. I don’t delude myself into thinking it’s because of the value I bring to the team. As the only current American living in Batey 7 I assume I’m chosen more for the novelty, kind of like a Banana Bunker (look it up) or a snot-flavored jelly bean: not exactly the most useful thing to go after but it’s something fun to laugh with your friends about.

Our self-elected team captain yells us all into position (it’s not angry yelling, that’s just the volume of conversation, especially in sporting event), though I’m not sure why we are spending so much time arranging ourselves when I know we will all leave our positions as soon as the ball goes into play. She puts me up front as a forward, which anyone who was around for my Charlie Brown soccer-playing era will think is a big joke. After a bit more yelling and a bit more rearranging of the orange cones, the ball is tossed up into the air. We have to wait for it to bounce three times until we can touch it.

One…

Two…

Three…

What starts now is one giant scuffle to get the ball. When a girl gets the ball, her usual first instinct is to kick it as hard as she can down the field. When a boy gets the ball, his usual first instinct is to try out all the fancy moves he has until he fools around too much and the ball is taken from him again. I take the time now to thank God once again for putting me in a country where soccer is not the official pastime; my skills are fortunately pretty comparable to a group of kids who are more accustomed to playing baseball.

Although they are happy to have me on their team the girls start the game by rarely passing me the ball, so my two main jobs right now are to make sure I don’t fall down when the ball is nowhere near me, and to check every now and then to make sure that my tank top hasn’t slipped down and is giving someone an unsolicited show. Other than that, I have a lot of time to stand back and watch the game.

The ball never seems to be in play for too long before someone sends it sailing to the other side of the Play and we have to wait for someone to retrieve it. The game also stops frequently to allow for discussion, argument, and loud cursing matches. If someone gets really upset with someone else they can pick up the soccer ball and throw it at them, or they can look for a decent rock to throw if the situation calls for it. I watch for a while, stepping in now and then to use my nonexistent authority to end the disputes. During one argument a random boy and fellow bystander points at me and laughs. I don’t know why. After five more minute of ignoring me and fighting, the game continues.

When the ball comes to me by accident I try to play it cool, get the ball under control, and send it back out to a teammate. I actually am able to do this several times without looking like an idiot. What I’m saying is the ball really goes to the person I wanted, or at least it looks like I wanted to send it to them. My skills are minimal but they are enough for one boy to comment at one point, “Wuey, pero la americana sabe!” A rough translation of that is “Wow, I expected this American to fall flat on her face the first time she tried to kick the ball but after a half hour she’s still standing upright!”

When the boys score a goal against us the girls call for a time out and a team meeting. Everyone huddles up and gestures furiously for me to join them. I bumble over to their huddle but all we do is put our hands in, cheer, and run back out to the field. I am confused, but I guess there’s something to be said for team spirit. After a few more minutes of playing I think they realize that we didn’t actually make a new plan for victory and so they call for another time out and team meeting. They huddle up, gesture furiously, and I bumble over. This time our team captain has an inspiring speech that I don’t really understand, but I manage to put my hand in just in time to cheer with everyone else.

The game continues. My team starts passing me the ball a little more and I even score a goal. It was disputed of course, because the ball had knocked the orange cone out of place as it went “into the net,” but in my best Dominican debating voice I argue my case, and after that nobody questions it.

The ball goes back down the field and is picked up by our goalie. She sends it out, kicking it high and hard, and headed right for my face. Not wanting to risk breaking my brand new Dominican glasses that are slightly too big for my head and slide down my nose every thirty seconds, I turn my head and let the ball awkwardly hit the right side of my skull and bounce away, which I choose to believe looks impressive and self-sacrificing.

Just as I begin to wonder how much time we have left before the sun will set completely, the game stops abruptly and everyone on the field simultaneously starts to walk away. The ball is picked up, the orange cones retrieved. I look around, wondering if I had missed a signal or something, shrug, and continue on my way, covered in sweat and dust and maybe, just maybe, with a tad more street cred.

At least enough to get me invited back to the next game. 

The Post I Never Wanted to Write

I have put off writing this, mainly because I wasn’t sure how to put everything into words. There is so much to say, and yet when I sit down to tell you about it, no words come. But I feel like now it is time; many of you already know the announcement I’m about to make, through some letters we have sent out or through talking to us in person.

After a lot of prayer and discussion, my parents and I feel that, for a variety of reasons, our time in the Dominican Republic is coming to an end.

Did I just say that? This is me we’re talking about; for the past seven years (for those of you keeping score at home, that’s about a third of my lifetime) I have lived, breathed, and dreamed of nothing but the Dominican Republic. Not a day has gone by since my first trip here when I was 16 that I haven’t thought about my dear country that I fell in love with so quickly. I read so many books, did so many assignments in college, all geared toward having a successful ministry in the Dominican Republic. And now, I’m…supposed to leave?

At the end of 2015, my parents and I will be finishing our work in the DR and heading back to the United States for the next step in God’s plan for our lives. You probably read through that last sentence really fast, but I can’t tell you how long it took for me to actually write. I hope to always be honest with you, and this is honestly a decision that was really hard for me to make. During the process of deciding to leave the DR I felt anger, bitterness, frustration, uncertainty, and a lot of sadness. I was angry at God for giving me such a small amount of time here; I was angry at life for not turning out the way I thought it should; and I was angry at myself, because at first even the thought of leaving my home here felt like an unforgivable betrayal. It hurt my misplaced sense of pride, as if leaving here is equal to failure. I’m sure many other missionaries who have left their mission field have felt that very same way.

Though I will never be able to fully explain why we are leaving at the end of the year, mostly because God hasn’t really told me himself the whole story, I do want to tell you that we are not leaving because of something bad that happened or because we are culturally, emotionally, or physically exhausted. We have a wonderful life here, and though it is far from easy and even farther from perfect, we have thoroughly enjoyed our time here. The friends we have made are beautiful people, and my heart will ache to leave them. The work we have done is slowly growing and developing, and it will be hard to leave it behind for others to continue. But in all things I have to trust that God knows what he is doing, and that he really is working in all things for the good of those who love him (which is me-and my Dominican brothers and sisters).

For a while now I have felt completely at peace with my decision, and I was even excited to see what God has in store for me in the future. But I have to admit that as soon as I began to write these words to you all of my feelings of sadness and doubt came rushing back. I think it’s because this kind of makes it seem more final. When I make this announcement, there’s no turning back. I am ready, now, to face the future, but it still hurts. I know in December I will leave a big piece of my heart behind.

So what’s next for my family? In truth we haven’t established any set plans yet, but we will definitely keep you informed! My heart and soul still feel the distinct call to the mission field, though which particular one I am not sure. We would appreciate all of your prayers as we begin to wind down in the next coming months and prepare to transition back to the States. Pray for us to finish our work well, and for the people around us that we will be leaving. And as always pray for God to move in mighty ways in the DR; he has big plans for this country, and I feel so honored and privileged to have played a small part in his greater plan.

Thank you for reading, and for understanding, and for praying. Thank you for being with us during our journey. You have meant more to us than you will ever know.