I become sober as I remember how much I loved going downtown of my city.  Santiago is the friendliest place I can think of.  At least 3 times a week I would squeeze myself into a “concho” and pay the equivalent of about 12 cents for a ride to almost anywhere.  As one of the 6 passengers in a small economy beater (that’s an understatement), you are immediately hit with Dominican culture.  After greeting everyone with a “salud,” the stranger that you are practically sitting on becomes your newest, dearest friend.  Everyone laughs at jokes or passionately complains about the economy.  An outsider would think it was a car-full of old friends as everyone sings along to the most typical songs of Bachata and Merengue playing on every radio in the city.

Oh, how I loved walking those streets of Santiago!  I had friends among the street vendors and at least one in each of the large stores of the city.  I adored just being a part of their lives.  The moneychangers would yell in broken English, “Dólares, dólares.  You want dollars?”  I loved playing with them and I would always reply (in Spanish of course), “I don’t speak English.” Or “I’m Dominican; why would I want U.S. dollars?”  That might have been my favorite part of the city experience: playing with the vendors, claiming I don’t understand English, or saying Dominican phrases that cause exclamations of surprise.  “Cómo?!  You must be Dominican!”

People were always baffled to find that I knew Spanish.  I would explain that I had been living there for a couple of months; of course I had learned it by then, right?  They told me that Americans don’t usually learn their language.  In time, I began to see what they meant.  I met Americans that had been living there for years and couldn’t understand or speak more than “Where’s the bathroom?” or “I don’t speak Spanish.”  For years they had lived there! What is it in American nature that causes some to believe that no matter whose country they’re in, everyone should speak their language in order to make the experience most enjoyable?  My only reconciliation after realizing this was witnessing these same people being “raped” like crazy because the price that seemed like such a good deal to any foreigner was actually a huge scam.

I was cheated at first, too.  But that was only until the privileged American mentality died and the Dominican was born in me.  I had no choice; the little girl with self-pity that I was the first day, along with all the fear HAD to die.  I wouldn’t have survived otherwise.

I don’t mean to say that now I look at Americans with disgust or as snobs, it’s just that I woke up and realized how wealthy I was regardless of the fact that in America I’m considered to be from a “low-income family.”  No matter how much money my family has, I’m rich!  I saw families living along my street in shacks made by placing sheets of metal on end.  Their homes were the size of the “small living quarters” of a room in Walker Hall.  There were countless numbers of boys of 5 and 6 without families who had to spend their entire childhood making pennies at a time by shining shoes up and down the city.  These boys had to be tough to live, sleep, and, eventually, die in the streets.

My heart broke the day I saw one of these boys checking out in the supermarket around noontime.  He had his shoe-shining kit under his arm, a few pesos he had just earned in one hand, and his purchase in the other.  I peeked over to see what he was getting himself for his lunch.  An apple.  That’s it.   An apple was all this young 6 or 7-year-old boy could afford after working all morning.  I felt like vomiting as I thought of the souvenirs I had just bought for my family.  That’s about when I started to carry cookies in my purse to give to the little shoe-shiners.

Poverty is not a stranger to a Dominican; however, what they lack in riches they make up for in their passion for life.  Their friendliness cannot be missed as strangers walk down the street and begin conversations.  People you’ve never met will call you “mi amor” (my love) and laugh with you over a mildly humorous comment about Dominican life.  Their friendliness comes from a strong sense of connectedness stemming from nothing more than living in the same city with you.  Can you imagine this warmth in a U.S. city like Chicago?  It’s no surprise to me that after only a week of knowing my family and closest friends, I felt like I had always been one of them.  It was easy to adopt their laid-back attitude and I could be found joining in with everyone else dancing along the street when a popular song came on.

I look forward to living with these people once again, but it’s too early to tell my family of my plans to move to Santiago as soon as I graduate.  For now they can listen to more stories of people that they see as characters in a play but are flesh and blood to me.  The days leading up to the moment I left the U.S. were filled with anxiety that multiplied each day.  I even thought at times, “I don’t really have to get on this plane.  I’ll just stay here where life is predictable.”  But I got on that plane and thank myself every day that I did.  My experience studying on my own in another country and being forced to learn a language has changed everything that I see.  It changed the way I see myself, my God, my family, my country, my priorities, the world, and what’s necessary in life—just to name a few.  I’m stronger, more confident, happier, less naïve, and I love myself for not allowing fear to keep me away from a less predictable life.

I’ve all but forgotten who I was before this experience, but I don’t dare forget one thing about America: We do still live in the land of opportunity.  If you don’t agree, live for 4 months in a country like the Dominican Republic without stepping foot on a resort.  A tourist will visit a resort, but that’s not where you’ll find the country.  The people are the country, and you have to live there—not visit—to find them.

Paula R. Burnett
July 30, 2004