"Hot summer!" Caneo looked to me for affirmation, as if the small river of perspiration seeping down my forehead and continuing down the slope of my sunburned nose wasn't clue enough. I held in a giggle. Good old Caneo, trying out whatever English word he'd recently memorized.
"Yes," I answered, "it is a hot summer." The belabored enunciation would have caused an English-speaker to look at me in disdain, but to Caneo's Haitian ears it was just slow and careful enough for him to hear me repeat back the words he had stored in his apt mind.
Caneo beamed at me in delight, proud from the coarse, curly black hair on his head to his calloused white-soled feet. He was a tall youth of twenty-three, generous of stature and handsome features. His voice was soft, and he had a kind, gentle manner-the kind of person that wins friends even through language barriers.
I met Caneo in February of 2006. He was one of three university students who had moved into the city of Barahona, Dominican Republic from his batey (nearby village), to minimize commute time.
In June of 2005 I had applied to go on a mission trip to Malawi, Africa. I was turned down. A month later I received a call from the mission asking me to come to the Dominican Republic; they needed a sewing teacher. At first I was hesitant-I had wanted to work with Africans. As a young child I dreamed of living among them, I devoured National Geographic's coverage of the African lands, and part of my heart was always locked away for my dark-skinned brothers. I was sure a Spanish-speaking people couldn't be the key.
I agreed to a six month stay, with some reluctance. When I arrived in the DR, I discovered it to be inhabited by Haitians, who were originally brought to Hispaniola (the island of Haiti and the Dominican Republic) as slaves from Africa. It wasn't long before I found myself living out my childhood dream. My heart could speak Spanish.
On first acquaintance I knew Caneo to be a strong-goal oriented individual. The mere fact that he was attending pre-med school in Barahona spoke strongly of what he'd been through. It is highly unusual for Haitians to even go to high school, much less likely that one would be attending a university (Britannica). The Haitian population in the Dominican Republic is high and very unwelcome. Thousands of Haitians immigrate to the DR to work on the sugarcane fields: from one third-world country to another, hoping for hope (MAKARiOS).
I imagine Caneo discreetly squirming in his seat during his history classes at the Barahona University.
"Rafael Leónidas Trujillo, Dominican dictator..." the professor begins his lecture. For Caneo the memories come unsolicited. It was only fifty years ago that his race was being publicly persecuted-massacres and Haitian obliterations took place, and a renewed awareness of skin color (Forrest, SSRC).
I learned quickly that skin color is no small matter to Dominicans. Hearing the comments was a constant frustration to me:
"You're white, that is so much prettier."
"Black women are ugly."
On one occasion I traveled to a mountain lookout with a group of Dominicans and overheard excited comments on the way back:
"Look! My skin is lighter...the wind up there blew some of the black away!"
"Me, too. The wind blew my skin whiter!"
To the Dominican mind their skin is like a swimming pool. The darker the water, the less attractive it is it swim in; water that is very dark is downright revolting. Although a Dominican prides himself on the quantity of Spanish blood he can claim runs through his veins, he knows that the race of Dominicans is primarily mulatto, a mixture of the ancient Taino Indians, Spanish explorers and African slaves. A tourist asks why none of the Dominican dolls have faces. "We have no pure ancestry," is the answer.
"Caneo, why do you always call me, ‘usted'?" I had known Spanish long enough to understand that Dominicans only use the formal pronoun ‘you' (usted) for those of very high rank-the boss of a corporation, or a political official-never with an acquaintance or friend (Erichsen). This had bothered me for some time that Caneo referred to me in this way; I considered him a friend just as I would consider any American young man with whom I'd spent some time conversing.
"It is because...well," Caneo hesitated, not looking at me. "Well...you came here to help our children...you're white....you just are superior. I feel like I should say that."
"Caneo, no!" I responded in horror. I waited for him to look at me. "We are equals, Caneo."
The look of gratitude in his eyes nearly brought me to tears. "Gracias, Maggie." he said quietly. I wondered at this strange interchange for some time until I was at a gas station some weeks later. Some Dominicans were talking to the storeowner, it appeared they needed something. The storeowner looked around and spotted a Haitian man nearby, washing his motorcycle. "Get over here, you black devil!" I looked away in horror as the Haitian man responded, walking over to the storeowner. This scene is burned into my mind and suddenly it didn't strike me as so odd that Caneo had never been called an equal to someone lighter-skinned before.
Caneo's education must not only overcome the opposition of his position in life, but the hostility among students as well. Charizon, another graduate from Algodón who lives with Caneo was assaulted one night by fellow students-only because Charizon is Haitian. The shame they carry around with them is overwhelming.
Caneo was right, it was a hot summer. But as I wiped sweat from my brow, I thought of the Haitians' hot summer of racial prejudice, the unending heat of discrimination and hatred over their nationality and skin color. I surmised with consternation that I myself played a part in that, just by being white. I wished I could have a "Caneo conversation" with all of them.
Caneo was born Pedro Antonio Jimenez, but nicknamed Caneito (little Caneo, after his father) as a baby (Gomez). To some he is Pedro, to some Antonio, to me Caneo. I never have understood his method of introducing himself, and I have come to think he does it randomly: whatever name suits him at the time.
Caneo grew up in batey Algodón, a sugarcane plantation town with the population of about 2500 in about 500 houses (Gomez). Like most Haitian men, his father is a meagerly paid sugarcane harvester, bringing home just enough pesos to keep his family fed. Bertha, Caneo's mother, spends her days making order of their rundown casa. She is mother to 7 surviving children. Many more died at birth on account of their large size-they weighed between 13-15 pounds. Haitian women rank very low on the medical priority scale and most of them are only assisted by a grandmother or witchdoctor while giving birth. She probably needed cesarean sections to deliver, but was unable to procure the money and willing medical help. When I looked at her worn face and hands, I saw blue ribbons for a life of hard labor, pain and loss.
She is a kind, quiet woman. I never once saw in her any bitterness over her situation in life. What I saw in Bertha Jimenez was a quiet contentment which I would later begin to see in many of these impoverished people; a beautiful happiness and acceptance of existence in the bateyes.
Algodón is the size of a Costco retail center. It is a place most Americans wouldn't set foot in, much less raise their children in. If you can afford the twenty pesos to ride the guagua (bus), you arrive in about 20 minutes. Otherwise it is a day's walk to the nearest town, a place most batey residents seldom visit. Haitian bateyes are for life; seldom do the residents venture beyond their home (MAKARiOS). Generation after generation runs the cycle of batey life within its bounds. Algodón is a separate world-a world I fell in love with instantly.
"My house is over here, Maggie," Caneo says to me in Spanish, motioning towards the north side of the batey. I follow him, looking down so as to dodge puddles of unidentifiable substances and sharp rocks. I can't help but notice that the children are running around barefoot. "Aqui," he says. "Mamá! Poppy!" He is speaking in Creole now. One by one, the dark, beautiful strongly featured Haitian family members duck out of the mud-floored, tin roofed hut the size of my bedroom. I can see that there is no running water, no electricity.
I do my best to recall Dominican cultural guidelines as I meet the Jimenez family, avoiding meeting the eyes of the men (like any decent Dominican woman), and smiling warmly at his mother, and Yohany and Yoleiny, his sisters. Eight-year-old Angel runs past just now and is summoned. He turns to look at me, then runs away. I smile. I smile again at the family. They are poor, dirty and beautiful.
I move on through the village, hiding bewilderment and tears behind my best smile. Naked children racing between houses, keeping old tires turning by carefully timed nudges from a stick. One boy has a ragged shirt on, he is sitting by himself, gnawing on a piece of sugar cane. A group of girls is sitting in cracked plastic chairs, weaving and braiding cabello (hair extensions) into their short, coarse hair. Five men are sitting on stools, balancing a board game between their knees. They are sporting clothes pins on their ears, lips, cheeks-it is a game of endurance: the one who gives into the uncomfortable pinching is mocked and loses.
Suddenly there is a commotion in the village and everyone is running toward the road. A water truck is pulling in. "We haven't had water in three days," Caneo explains to me, "everyone is very thirsty." Water must be delivered daily to the bateyes; each family is allowed to collect their ration in buckets that are then carried back to their huts to be used for cooking and drinking. It is by no means purified, and parasites and diseases were as common to young Caneo as a runny nose (MAKARiOS).
Caneo greets a family who is shelling guandules (green peas) to be sold in the market. He tells me to look for them next time I go to market. I do my best to memorize the dark faces of the family, ruefully admitting to myself that I would never be able to single them out in the sea of faces, produce, and animals that is know as El Mercado (the market). The market is the heart of Barahona. I fondly recalled the first time I walked through the pages of National Geographic.
It was everything the travel guides suggested it to be. The colors were vibrant. None were gringas like myself (white skinned), but the tones of brown skin from the Dominicans to the Haitians was like opening a Valentines chocolate sampler. Their clothing is bright, too. Mostly mismatched by American fashion standards, I had to hold back an amused grin a few times at the screen printed shirts I beheld. "School of Psychology" or "DARE to keep kids off drugs" or "Juicy Sweet Lemonade." My favorite was a bright pink furry pig with the word "Beautiful" beneath it.
Beyond the people and clothing were the sights of dozens of booths along the street, each displaying no particular assortment of edible goods. Four foot stalks of bananas suspended from the overhangs, small limes arranged into piles, trucks full of chino, a pale, mellow tasting type of orange. The chicken booth was what really got my attention. I stared in amazement as I joined the jabbering crowd in line for some fresh meat. And fresh it was, by all standards; the live ones were on standby in a box on the floor. The poor plucked pollo would be grabbed, slit open to remove the gizzards, have their beaks cut off, legs broken and then tossed onto the scale to be weighed. After being weighed the whole bird is tossed back onto the bloody, slivered chopping block and is dismembered and divided into friable portions with a few chops from the butcher's knife. Then the whole bird is pushed back on the counter and another is likewise prepared for edibility until enough meat has been procured for the buyer. The fresh meat is then gathered into a black garbage bag and the butcher accepts the proffered pesos with the same bloody hand.
I eventually grew accustomed to the sights of the market and learned its importance to daily life in Barahona. In a few months I was the one at the pollo counter, loudly making known how many pounds of poultry I needed for that day's almuerzo (lunch). I grew to love the market, just as I grew to love the people who made it what it was. The market is the heart of Barahona, and the poor Haitian vendors are the hardy blood that supports its veins. My footfalls as I weave through the stalls in that acre of life make no sound. They merely mimic the beating of that Haitian blood. It beats faithfully-not progressing, not producing more blood-just circulating steadily, anonymously keeping the city alive and well. I have to wonder at the harmony of daily life. Barahona, the town that hates the very nature of its heart-but can't live without it.
Caneo's hot summer sun continued beating rays down on us all. I learned that sunscreen and racism is just a way of life in the DR, and that you get used to both.
Algodón continued to steal my heart.
"Komon ou ye?" Yohany grins at me and gives me an affectionate hug.
"Poppymal." I respond with my best imitation of the guttural tone and accent of the Haitian language. We both laugh. This interchange happens on every meeting-basic formalities in Creole. Caneo had taught me a few greetings and pleasantries and my use of them never ceased to produce a squeal of delight from my friends in Algodón.
Yohany was my student, both of English and sewing. I'd been sent to the DR to teach sewing classes to illiterate Haitian women who have no skills, no materials, no way to advance, no hope. I was partnered with a mission called Niños de las Naciones (Children of the Nations) whose goal was to bring hope into the lives of the Haitian people, both physically-with feeding programs and solid education-and spiritually, teaching them about the hope offered by Jesus Christ for a life beyond this world and their batey (COTN).
Teaching those classes was the hardest and most rewarding thing I've ever done. I'd forego a chance to see the Sistine Chapel being painted just to relive the look of pride on a Haitian woman's face when she feels something take shape under her very fingers for the first time. Teaching these women a skill is giving them a key to unlock their intellect and feel their worth. It is like fitting them with glasses to see clearly what was there all the time: creativity, potential, and hope.
"I want to be just like Caneo!" Yohany told me on more than one occasion. As one of Algodón's only two high school graduates in four generations, Caneo is a role model to many, especially to this 18-year-old sister. To them he is a beacon of hope, a drink of cool water in the midst of a hot summer day. Caneo has shown them how to survive the sun's hot rays.
In batey Altagracia most of the children had never seen a white person. The short-term church team had come to conduct a children's program and it was my job (as the Spanish-speaker) to circulate the batey and invite the children. I was thankful that Caneo had come along when I saw the small brown bodies running from me in fear. Some of the braver ones could be coaxed to hold my hand, but the small child I tried to hold in my arms screamed in fear at the glow of my white skin. I passed her to Caneo and she stopped crying immediately. We continued on, coaxing children from out behind their houses and parents to come to our program of games, snacks and stories. Often Caneo had to translate my Spanish into Creole for the parents who didn't understand. "He can come if he finds some clothes," one apathetic mother who was napping in the sun told us. The boy looked at us in chagrin. He was about five and probably didn't know how to dress himself, only having worn clothes on rare occasions. Caneo looked at me. "Un momento," he said, and went into the boy's house to find some clothes.
I saw this behavior in him many times. Caneo loved his people.
"What are you studying in school, Caneo?" I asked one day as we were gathering mangos behind Casa de la Playa, the mission's house.
"I want to be a doctor to the Haitian women. I watched my mom's babies die and I don't want more babies to die because there are no doctors." He picked up another mango and tossed it into the bucket. "I want to go to Haiti."
I continued gathering mangos in silence, fighting back the tears. Neither English nor Spanish lent me words. How did this beautiful tree, strong and resilient, develop under so little cultivation? What makes it grow?
Suddenly I was aware of the sun. Its rays were beating down on the bucket of mangos, warming them. It shone through the tree's leafy screen, allowing abstract patterns to dance freely on the hard, dry ground. I felt it burning the back of my bare, white neck. It was hot, fierce, unavoidable.
I wondered if Caneo noticed.
Works Cited
"Children of the Nations: Dominican Republic". Children of the Nations. 15 May 2007 <http://www.cotni.org/28-dominican-republic>.
"Dominican Republic." Encyclopædia Britannica. 2007. Encyclopædia Britannica Online. 12 May 2007 <http://www.britannica.com/eb/article-54444>.
Erichsen, Gerald. "Formal and Informal 'You' - Spanish Grammar". Your Guide to Spanish Grammar. 15 May 2007 <http://spanish.about.com/od/pronouns/a/you.htm>.
Forrest, Dave. "Rafael Trujillo: The Dominican". James Logan High School . 13 May 2007 <http://www.jlhs.nhusd.k12.ca.us/classes/social_science/Latin_America/Dominican_Republic.html>.
Gomez Richardson, Yaneth. Personal Interview. 10 May 2007.
"MAKARiOS". Institution for Educational Development in Hispaniola. 09 May 2007 <http://www.makariosinternational.org/batey.asp>.
"Solidarity with the Struggle of the Dominican Minority of Haitian Descent for Citizenship and Justice". Social Science Research Council. 12 May 2007 <http://programs.ssrc.org/gsc/gsc_quarterly/newsletter5/content/mudha />.
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