Be your own kind of beautiful.

Let me tell you what I ate for lunch yesterday: una bola de yuca (a fried ball of yuca with cheese in the middle), lasagna, a croissant (again with cheese in the middle), rice, and chinola (passion fruit juice that is mostly just sugar). Not the healthiest meal imaginable. While I usually have access to a fruit or vegetable at each meal, low-calorie options aren't generally available at my house. Initially I was a little alarmed, but my perspective  has begun to shift. The truth is, regardless of what these yuca balls, etc. may be doing to me, I've felt more comfortable in my own skin here than ever before. (I guess being told you're beautiful by random men 3+ times daily eventually starts making an effect on you.)

yuca balls

I (only half-joking) told a Dominican friend recently that I may have gained ten pounds in the first month of being here. "It did you good," he said in complete seriousness. I was taken aback.  My very American mind was bewildered. Was he kidding? He had to be kidding. Unless you have been kept in a concentration camp for an extended period of time, gaining weight is never a good thing. He must have seen my confused expression, because he continued. "Really," he said, "It's good to have some curves."

They call us "blanca con culo". Look it up.

The way various physical characteristics are valued here is gradually making more sense to me. I'd always heard that in Latin American culture having curves is seen as a good thing, but I never truly believed or understood it. Because I've been so brainwashed by our Western ideal of beauty, I've always thought that thinner is inherently and universally better. Thus the bewilderment of my north American worldview crashing into the reality of another culture. I've really been shocked several times, not only by conversations like the one with my friend but with what I've seen: curvaceous women being embraced and appreciated by an astounding number of men. In the streets, in clubs, or on campus, I'm constantly seeing Dominican women who I would not characterize as thin, yet who carry themselves like the beauties they are. And what's more, they don't seem to have a problem getting a boyfriend or a dance partner or anything. Another friend recently explained it to me like this: "You know how American men feel about  feet? That's how Dominicans feel about fat. Yeah, it's better if your girl has nice feet, but no one really cares."

On the other hand, Dominicans have their own ideals of beauty. Most people here are from mixed European and African descent, and their hair is similar to that of most African Americans. It is of the utmost importance that women here have stick-straight, soft hair. They don't usually get relaxers, but from what I gather, they go fairly often to a salon to have their hair blow-dried straight and smooth. Having curly, wavy, or natural hair is apparently a big turn-off, so much so that Dominican men will pay for their girlfriends to get their hair done "right". Maybe it's just a cultural norm that's seen almost as more of a hygienic issue; I mean, I don't know too many American men who want their girlfriends to give up shaving. But I was heartbroken when I realized how this cultural ideal of beauty plays out. Last week at the children's center where I volunteer, one of our sweet students stroked my hair softly with her tiny, olive-colored hand. "Me gusta tu pelo," she said wistfully. "Mi pelo es malo." Which translates into "I like your hair. My hair is bad." Alarmed, I frantically tried to convince her in my broken Spanish that no, her hair was beautiful too. Just different. She smiled faintly but the look in her eyes told me that she didn't believe a word I said.

(Sorry, this isn't her. But you get the idea.)

I've always been fascinated and mystified by the definition of beauty, and the brokenness of poor self-image breaks my heart in a way I can't explain. In the past few years, I have known countless women of various cultural backgrounds who have had deep wounds from receiving messages of what beauty is or isn't. Whether it's an American woman who thinks she needs to lose that bit of fat from her tummy or a Dominican woman who wishes her hair would sway when the wind blows, the story is the same -- a tragedy. It's tragic that from our childhoods, we grow up with ideas of what beauty is and isn't. We're taught to evaluate ourselves and others by a set of standards decided by someone else.

In my opinion, Satan's got a strong foothold in our world in this way. By convincing us that our value depends on our hair or our weight or our color, he also convinces us of a lie about our creator. He wants us to believe that God was sloppy with some of us. Your skin color is a little darker than all the movie stars? You have love handles? Your nose has a bump? You're short? Sorry kid, God must have gotten a little distracted when he was working on you. That's the message we believe when we accept that we are anything less than beautiful.  And it's the message we send others when we categorize them. Whether it's explicit (Top 20 Most Beautiful Women of Wheaton) or implicit (only dancing with the "cute" guys), it's a lie we can't stop telling. And we're all guilty.

How do we stop it? I wish I had an answer for how to take this big fat lie and turn it on its head in an instant, but I don't. All I can offer is that we each have to start with ourselves. Refusing to receive lies and refusing to tell them. Looking for places they've infiltrated our subconscious that we never even recognized and tearing them apart with ferocity. And if you believe in God and his work in your life, handing it over to him and letting him heal your heart from the wounds that have been inflicted upon it.

My friend Liz (whose blog you should definitely follow) has a quote that I love. And if you've ever questioned your worth or your value based on what the world tells you, I want you to memorize it and  repeat it until you believe it: There could never be a more beautiful you.

runner's high + pictures = a very happy blog

The wind has changed, my friends. Gracias a Dios. It changed on Saturday, September 18, exactly one month after I arrived in the Dominican Republic. Because on Saturday, September 18, I had a once-in-a-blue-moon Perfect Day. I had spent Friday night in La Romana, a region on the eastern coast of the island, with other students from my study abroad group. We woke up early and boarded a boat for Isla Saona, an island in the middle of the Caribbean accessible only by an hour and half boat ride.

Isla Saona

It started with the sun shining down on us in all its radiance. The perfect sun was complemented by the perfect sky, as blue as I’d ever seen it. There was the perfect boat complete with a giant hammock. Then there was the perfect music – merengue and bachata, of course – on the deck, which happened to be perfect for dancing.  

los americanos on the boat, pre-sunburn

My Perfect Day got even better upon our arrival at the island, which had perfect clear blue water and perfect white sand. The water felt perfect, the shore was perfect for exploring, and the locals were perfectly patient in teaching this not-so-perfect dancer. I found a perfect shell and held a perfect starfish. I successfully convinced another eager Dominican that I was not perfect for him and yet had a perfectly pleasant interaction. On the way home, I ate my two favorite Dominican dishes: mangú and yuca, both of which were prepared perfectly and for a perfect price (around $1.25 for both). My Perfect Day ended perfectly, with a long, sweet night of sleep. Yes, I walked away with a bit of a sunburn, but who cares? It’s a souvenir from my Perfect Day!

Mangú: a traditional Dominican dish made with plantains, onions and oil

It’s strange considering that exactly one month ago today, I cried four times within a 24-hour period. I’m not talking a few tears welling up in my eyes; I mean I bawled. I couldn’t imagine surviving here for four more months. But I’m still alive! And what’s more, I think I’m on the brink of more than survival. I think I’m going to thrive.

So what has changed other than my Perfect Day, you ask? Circumstantially, not too much. It’s still hot, Dominicans still speak quickly, and my best friends still live thousands of miles away. But while the DR hasn’t changed, I’m able to see my own evolution, slowly but surely.

For one thing, I do understand much more than I did a month ago. When I first arrived, I could probably understand less than 10% of what was said. Now I’d say my comprehension is about 60% on average (with my classroom comprehension about 75% and my “street” comprehension about 50%). Which is clearly still not great, but I take what I can get.

I’ve learned to celebrate my victories, no matter how small. Like being able to take public transportation alone or convince my taxi driver to lower his price by fifty pesos. I’ve learned to really relish accomplishments that wouldn’t normally cause me to bat an eyelash, like getting an “A” on my first literature paper or buying international stamps at the post office. I’ve learned to accept compliments, even if they’re not entirely flattering: “You’re a good dancer. I mean, for a beginner” or “Your accent is getting much better. When you first got here, I couldn’t understand a word you said”.

I've learned to take chances. Yesterday I was running around my campus, which is a great big circle, when I heard a voice say, "Oye, americana. Corre con nosotros." "Hey, American. Run with us." I turned to see two men, both of whom looked very Dominican and very fast. But then I did something entirely out of character: I followed them. We took off, away from the main road and down toward the soccer field. Around the field and through the bushes. And for the next mile we ran together, they were entirely gracious, both about my Spanish and my inability to run as fast as they would've liked. (I don't feel too bad about that, though -- one of them had just come in second place in a marathon.) As I take more chances with Dominicans, I discover  more and more of who they are and the beauty that is inherent within both of us.

in La Romana

pa mangar mi visa

I feel a little guilty for having made all my blog posts so heavy thus far, especially when I'm not normally that profound or introspective of a person. So to show my gratitude to you, my faithful blog readers, and lighten things up around here, I'm going to embark on a new topic: dating and relationships in the Dominican Republic. From a purely anthropological standpoint, of course.

Ways Dating/Relationships Differ in the DR*

1. When someone wants you, you know it. Whether they see you in a bar or on the street, if they're interested, they let you know immediately. Honestly, I don't think many of them have a fear of rejection like in the US. There's an honesty here that I've never encountered before. In the US, dating is a game and the players have to play their roles perfectly or the game is over. You like someone but pretend you don't. Then you try to read their signals for the next few hours or days or weeks. Do they really not like you that much or are they pretending they don't because that's part of the game? Do they want to commit eventually or are they just in it for fun? Dating in the US can be exhausting just from trying to figure out what each other wants. Not the case here. When a Dominican man likes you, he makes a beeline for you and lets you know (sometimes in excessive detail) just exactly how he feels about you. One day I'm going to count the number of piropos I get per hour walking down the street. But that leads to my next point, which is
2. Although it's nice that people are at least straightforward here, most of the time their motivations aren't too pure. When someone "likes" you, it is probably because you are American, and he wants a visa.  This can be a touchy subject as this is where some people depart from their previous transparency. "I don't just like you because you're American! Maybe other guys do, but I'm different." Riiiiight. Seriously though, even guys who already have visas love American girls. They think that white skin is just gorgeous (ironic, since in the US being pale is not considered attractive, and just goes to show that beauty is culturally constructed and is closely related to power dynamics).
3. Relationships move very quickly here. This is probably related at least partially to the fact that Dominicans don't have the whole "chase" stage of relationships. Here is a perfectly hypothetical example: Say I went on a date with a Dominican guy (let me emphasize ONE DATE) and told him that I can't call or text often because it costs too much money. And say the next day he tried to buy me a phone with a plan so I could talk to him all day every day, and became bewildered when I insisted that was inappropriate. When that didn't work, say he attempted to convince me to travel to the other side of the country to meet his family. All after one date. (Of course I am not necessarily speaking from experience, I'm just saying that something like that could happen.)
4. Dominicans use remarkably strong language to describe their feelings. While sometimes this gets annoying, I'm not going to lie: I swooned a little bit the other day when the incredibly handsome guy at the copy center addressed me as "mi amor". But that was just to ask how I wanted my book bound, so you can imagine how Dominicans speak when they actually like you, or say they like you. Remember my previous hypothetical example, and imagine that I hypothetically told the same hypothetical guy that it wasn't going to work out. Then imagine an incessant stream of phone calls and texts with such desperate, melodramatic statements as "I see in my future that I will never find love again". Haha. I feel a little guilty about the endless laughs I've gotten out of that one, but it really does go to show the huge cultural discrepancy between here and the US. Because that kind of sentiment would never be appropriate to express in the US after knowing someone less than a week. Claro.

I've been here for 23 days now. In that relatively short amount of time, I've grown to appreciate some of the ways Dominicans do things differently, especially because I've found the dating scene in the US to be pretty frustrating at times. Yet I can also say that dating here is exhausting and outrageous in its own way. I'm starting to think that maybe this is something that transcends culture; relationships are complicated the world over. But I said I wasn't going to try to go deep and profound on this one, so I won't continue making any grand assessments. I'll just say that personally, I'm a little tired of trying to maneuver through the tricky, risky business of dating in a foreign culture. So rest assured, dear friends, in knowing that I will return home sin un novio in tow. These guys are just gonna have to apply for that visa all by themselves.

*Disclaimer: All of this is admittedly stereotypical,  so take it with a grain of salt and don't cite me on this. But this is what I've gleaned from my own personal experience and conversations with locals, and let's face it, most stereotypes at least have some basis in truth.

**This is a link to a song that's very popular in the DR right now. The words mean something like "I want an American woman so I can swipe a visa". Hahaha. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oRVLPmdVwRA

I'm in love I'm in love I'm in love

Estoy enamorada. I’ve fallen in love. Truth be told, I only met the guy this morning, but when it’s love, it’s love. And as of today, I believe in love at first sight.

Our conversation went something like this (except in Spanish):

Me: Hello.

Him: Hello.

Me: What’s your name?

Him: (something mumbled in Spanish)

Me: One more time?

Him: Juan Carlos.

Me: Oh. I’m Erin. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Juan Carlos.

Then he smiled the most charming smile this country has ever seen and touched me ever so lightly on the shoulder as he walked away. Hours later, I am still thinking about those beautiful eyelashes and that sweet smile. Yes, it was a short conversation, but I know our future is bright. The only problem is that he’s shorter than me, and considerably younger as well. I’d say he’s around six. (Did you see that coming or did I surprise you?)

Okay, the real story is that today I went to a place called Monte Adentro, which is an area on the outskirts of Santiago. I went along with my professor to visit a place where I will be going each week to fulfill my practicum hours for my Community Service class. Monte Adentro is a far cry from La Lotería, the neighborhood in which I reside here. Although La Lotería by American standards could be classified as dirty and a little on the poor side, it’s like Beverly Hills compared to Monte Adentro. The trip there required my taxi winding its way through dusty dirt roads pocked with pot holes and avoiding the occasional pedestrian wandering in the middle of the road. As we traveled away from the university, I saw less apartment buildings and houses and more tiny cement hovels, along with the occasional wooden shack with a collapsed roof. The skin of the people we passed became less caramel and more coffee. (A rant on Dominican racial issues is on its way soon, I’m sure.)

Finally we arrived at a place called Comedor Padre Ramón Duber. It is not a school exactly, but more of a center for children in poverty to participate in various activities such as sports and art. When we climbed out of our taxi, we were greeted by a real-life nun, habit and all. There was some confusion as to why we were there and what I was going to do there (which I’ve learned from my friends on HNGR is not unusual in these kinds of countries). So I left that explanation to my professor and turned my attention to the little knot of children that had formed around the new gringa. And this was the moment I fell in love, not only with sweet Juan Carlos, but with Marecios and Maria de los Angeles and the all rest of the little hooligans who were running amok around that battered little building.

But then Patricia the nun got my attention. Roughly translated, she told me, “We don’t have the resources to teach English to our students. They don’t have things to write with. And it is very hard to keep their attention because they have many problems. So many of them come here hungry.” Then my professor asked me if I thought my classmates and I would be willing to pitch in money to purchase the materials we would use with our children there. If I had known how to say it fast enough, I would have said, “I’ll give them anything! Find me an ATM stat!” Looking around at Comedor, with sheets of plastic for windows and a holey tarp for a ceiling, it was obvious that acquiring even something as cheap as paper and pencils would pose a problem.

We left all too soon, but not before promising my new friends I would be back next week. (And I’m already scheming to figure out how I can work more hours outside of my requirement. Because, you know, I’m in love.) Ironically, being there was the first time I’ve felt really happy since coming here, because it was the first time I wasn't living for me. Since my arrival, so much of my time has been spent on Erin. Doing things that satisfy MY desires or MY needs. Those aren’t inherently bad things, of course. But if I am living for Erin, loving only Erin, and letting my world revolve around Erin, there’s not a lot of room for loving Jesus and his people. Which is Not Okay, and in the end only leaves me empty and alone.

So I’m thrilled for the opportunity to work with my new heartthrob Juan Carlos and all the other precious children at Comedor. Please pray that the love of Christ would shine through me in every interaction, and that He would give me wisdom and discernment as to how to best bless them in our times together. Pray that God would miraculously end the poverty that literally threatens their lives. Pray that they would know God and how desperately in love with them He is.