Un Funeral

            I wanna dedicate this blog to my friend Catalina, one of the most beautiful, deep-thinking, and open-minded people I have ever met.

            First of all, classes are going well. They’re hard at times, but going well. I know, all of my Facebook pictures are of the beach so one might think that I don’t go to class. I promise I do! J My Culture and Society of the Hispanic Caribbean class is interesting…sometimes I feel like I don’t know what’s going on. Maybe it’s because my professor is quite possibly the most philosophical person in the Hispanic Caribbean or maybe it’s because it’s at 8 in the morning. Could be either one. I gave a presentation the other day on Cuba, about its history and its government. Surprisingly I found that I already knew most of that stuff (probably from my previous Che Guevara obsession). Then we watched a film called Bitter Sugar, which if you haven’t seen it, you really should. Cuba is such a provoking topic of conversation because you really can’t talk about its current situation without also talking about the United States. In fact, you can’t talk about any Caribbean island without mentioning the United States. Sometimes it’s amazing to me how our country has had such a profound impact on all these islands, all these nations. I now understand how it feels to be from a place whose economy, whose future, somewhat has to rely on a greater power. It’s something that we in the US never really had to deal with because we have always had the upper hand in the situation. All the dictatorships that we have put in place in Latin America and the Caribbean, all the money we have gained from them. It’s very humbling to be on the other side of the story and to find the balance between feeling guilty and understanding the situation. Overall goal: recognition. Because feeling guilty about it doesn’t do any good unless that guilt motivates you to want to do something about it, like educate others J

            Apart from this, something happened last week that deeply saddened me and made me very vulnerable. In the Dominican Republic, funerals are different than in the United States. Here, they often take place in a house or near a road, and anyone can come by to visit the body and say goodbye. Well, when I went to teach my English class in Cienfuegos on Thursday, the road was somewhat blocked off. I couldn’t figure out why there were all these people gathered outside the Escuela where I worked. My first impression was that it was a strike, because in Chile there are strikes outside of schools every 5 minutes. But it wasn’t. I saw people crying. People were sad. I walked up to my students and asked them what was going on, and they told me that it was a funeral. Of course it was! I had been to a funeral here before (remember the really embarrassing bright orange shirt incident?) We went inside and I taught an hour of class and then let the kids out for recess. During recess, the kids went to go look at the body in the house, asking me to come with them. I couldn’t do it. The person who died was a 30-year-old man who had been shot in the head in the middle of the night. I simply couldn’t go look, not only because I didn’t want to see the body, but also because I felt that it wasn’t my place because I didn’t know this guy. I told the students I didn’t want to go, and so they went on their own. I felt extremely uncomfortable, sitting on the front steps of the school with my students, watching them go and look at the body. I tried to make light conversation, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t stop thinking about how casually they were going to look at a guy who had been shot in the head. Then we started to go back inside, when one of my girl students pulled on my arm, telling me that the boys in my class were laughing at the body. At this point, I completely lost it. I’m not an angry person. I don’t get really mad and I don’t yell. But man, did I. I told those boys to get back inside. When all the students were back in the classroom, chatting and playing, I yelled, “SILENCE!” Then I asked the boys if they had been laughing at the body. They made up some crap about how they were laughing at something else, no se que no se que. And I yelled at them. I told them that it was disrespectful, imagine if that had been your family member and you saw someone laughing at them. I don’t remember what else I said. But they listened to me. I made the whole class take a minute in silence. The whole time, I felt like bursting into tears. How disrespectful, how rude, how inconsiderate. I felt so disappointed in my boys, as if they were my own kids who I was responsible for. I let class out a bit early. And I trudged back to the PUCMM, feeling extremely sad and extremely defeated. How could they? His poor parents, family, and friends. Seeing a bunch of kids laughing in the face of his death.

            But then I started to think. Why was I so much more upset than the rest of the kids about it? Because I’ve never been in that situation before. Sure, I’ve been to funerals. I’ve seen some suffering in my time. But for me, this was not casual. For these kids, it was. They’ve seen this before and to them, it’s just one more death of a young person in the neighborhood. A dead body? Hey, sure, let’s go look at it and see what it’s like. I come from a middle class background in the rural Midwest in which we are lucky that things like this are such a rarity. It was quite a bit of a culture shock for me, seeing all this happening and as a sociologist always trying to see the bigger picture. And the bigger picture is that I work in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the city of Santiago, and things like this happen all the time. I’m just not used to it. But it does no good to turn the other cheek and pretend like this isn’t happening. Even though it was hard on me, it was good for me because I learned and came to some self-realization. Next time this happens, I won’t get angry. I won’t yell. I’ll try to put myself in their shoes and be more open-minded about the situation. Being vulnerable is good sometimes because it teaches you to think more broadly and you are forced to learn. This isn’t to say that it’s ok to laugh at someone’s dead body, but everything is contextual, isn’t it?

            Sorry that the blog wasn’t exactly light-hearted, but one thing I’ve learned is that although it’s good to be care-free sometimes, there are some times when we have to care. Ignorance is not bliss J Thanks for listening, loves.

Dia Internacional de la Mujer

She is a woman

Hear me out

Listen to these stories

About everyday women

And think a bit.

Be proud

Because although we face these issues

We are strong

And we’ve come a long way

And we can.

-Thank you-

Anna

She is a woman. Once a month, she is reminded that she is a woman. She becomes bloated. Her cramps are torture. When she cries at a movie, she is told that her PMS is acting up and that she needs to get over it. PMS. PMS. PMS. She is made to think that her period makes her weak. So she becomes emotional. She becomes irritable. And she blames it on her pre-menstrual syndrome. Her boyfriend tries not to say anything stupid. Her friends are wary. But all women are emotional, so it’s ok. She’s just PMSing like every other girl on the planet. God, isn’t that annoying. Aren’t girls annoying sometimes. Their hormones are acting up again. Can’t they just get over it and be tough like men? She thinks about it one day. Why is she sad? Why does she feel emotional? Because that’s what she’s supposed to feel. Her period makes her weak. But this doesn’t make sense. This means that all women are weak. But we aren’t, are we? She smiles. She takes a Midol for her cramps and she goes to the gym to work out. She watches a movie with her friends and cries, not because of PMS, but because everyone cries at the dog dying. She refrains from certain activities but otherwise lives her life like normal. She handles her week-long episode with grace. Because she does it every month. Because we all do it every month. We are tough, and what doesn’t kill us will always make us stronger. This includes her period. It’s not a weakness. She is a woman.

She is a woman. Every day she wakes up at 6:00 AM to get breakfast on the table for her kids. Before anything, she drinks a cup of coffee before even beginning to think about the day ahead of her. She reaches into the cupboard and grabs the old Washington D.C. mug that her daughter brought her from some leadership conference. She pours the black coffee into the mug and immediately begins to gulp it down. It’s 7:00 and the kids haven’t woken up yet. She groans, going to each of their rooms and waking them up one by one. They come down to eat breakfast, then rush off to school, barely catching the bus. She cleans up the breakfast dishes. She goes to the grocery store, with her long list of supplies and all of her coupons ready, because she’s here to do business. As she waits in the same long line as she waits in every week, she glances at the magazines. Looks like the university she attended has added a new international studies department, sending students all over the world. She probably could have done something like that. She buys her groceries. She returns home to an empty house and begins to clean it. Mondays are bathroom days. After eating lunch, she sits down with a good book and gets lost in it, in her own world. She snaps back to reality when the phone rings. It’s the blood bank, and they ask her to donate blood. She donates blood, and then decides to stop by Pier One to see what they have in stock. The woman at the counter has seen her before and begins a conversation, in which the question is asked: “Where do you work?” She doesn’t like this question. “I work at home,” she replies confidently. The girl now seems somewhat less interested, and gives a little smile. She leaves the store. She goes home to prepare dinner, exhausted, feet hurting, and wanting to sit down. Her kids come home, telling stories of what happened in school. She hands a letter to her daughter, a letter from a college she applied to. The daughter opens it nervously, looking to her mom for guidance. And when she opens it, the look of glee and her warm embrace remind her why she chose to stay home as a mother. Because now her daughter might not have to. She smiles and celebrates with her kids. Sure, she could have been a CEO of a company. But nothing compares to the relationship she has with her children. And she chose her family. To her kids, she is a hero. She is a woman.

She is a woman. On a Friday night, she gets dressed with her sorority sisters to go out and hit the frats. They put on their black miniskirts, high heels and their big earrings, looking good and feeling ready to have a fun night of dancing. They go. They take shots. They laugh and they dance. She catches the eye of a guy across the dance floor. He looks her up and down, liking what he sees. He approaches her, dancing with her back to him. She’s still having fun. He brings her a blue drink. She hesitates, but decides to drink it. Her friends are with her. She is safe. But things become different. The dancing becomes dirtier. She sees the other girls, looking at her and raising their eyebrows. She starts to worry. Am I being a slut? But things become dizzy. He begins to kiss her neck. And after that…she doesn’t remember a thing. She wakes up the next morning, alone in a bed in a room she doesn’t recognize. She is scared. She tries to find her phone, with no luck. Her clothes are nowhere to be found. She finds a random shirt and pair of shorts and runs out of the building as fast as she can. She was at the same fraternity. As she walks back home across campus, afraid and confused, a group of prospective students walks by, staring at her. The boys smile. She thinks she might throw up. She goes home and immediately showers. Later they tell her that showering was a mistake. She hurts. She aches. What happened that night? As the day goes on, she realizes what happened. She feels disgusted with herself. Why did I allow myself to drink that much? Why did I dress like that? Why did I dance with him? I can’t believe I did that. She feels guilty and depressed. She blames herself for what happened. She doesn’t talk to anyone. She says nothing. She sees him on campus. He winks at her. She feels like puking. She can’t talk. They will blame her. Finally she tells one of her friends. Her friend is shocked and angry. How could he do that to her? Maybe it wasn’t her fault. With some support, she tries to press charges. She tries. And tries. And tries. But to no avail. There is no physical evidence. She was intoxicated. Who knows what happened? She knows what happened. She is without luck. But this does not stop her. That night was not her fault. She did not consent. There are a million ways to say no but only one way to say yes. She gets up the courage and she tells people what happened. And they listen. And they stand by her. She no longer feels alone. She can fight this with her fellow women. One night of a man’s selfishness cannot ruin her self-esteem or her life. She holds her head up high. She’s strong. She is a woman.

She is a woman. She goes to work in the morning. The parking spot which has been hers for the past five years is taken up by a shiny black BMW. She groans. She walks in the building. All the young men in their entry-level jobs look her up and down, saying their usual sneers. She goes to her office. The project she has been working on for the past few months is all ready on her desk. Today, she will show it to her boss. She will get the promotion. She goes early to prepare for the meeting. “You ready, Jackie?” says one of the board members, an older man named Bill. Her name is not Jackie. She smiles, nodding. He laughs, making her feel the need to laugh nervously too. She needs to impress these people. In come the other members, talking amongst themselves. She stands alone at the front of the room, waiting for them to stop talking. “Excuse me,” she says. No one hears her, and the sound of their voices begins to ring in her head. “Excuse me,” she says again, a little louder this time. Nothing. She begins to sweat. Her heart is pounding. “EXCUSE ME!” That’s it. Every male face looks up at her, surprised, as if they had no idea she was ever there. Her boss tells her that a lady in an office should never shout like that. She pretends to agree with him and apologizes, and begins her presentation. She has been practicing for months. She is prepared to answer any question thrown at her. She knows every part down to a tee. She projects well, she flows well, and she is effective. The whole time, she looks at the back wall instead of at the men sitting around the conference room. When she is finished, she smiles and lets out a big sigh of relief. She is going to get the promotion. Then she looks at the board members. Some are looking out the window. Some are doodling in their notebooks. Some have their eyes closed. The smile fades from her face. “Does anyone have any questions?” Not one of them looks her in the eye. “No, Jackie, that’ll be fine,” says her boss. She sits down at her seat, confused. The next turn goes to the new young man from New York, who gives a five minute speech about the same topic, telling jokes to impress the bosses. At the end of his talk, the board members cheer and laugh. She sinks in her seat. She is not getting the promotion. Later she gathers the courage to confront her boss. Before she can say a word, he asks her to get him a cup of coffee, cream and two sugars. Frustrated, she does so. She then asks why she did not get the promotion. He tells her that he prefers her to be where she is at right now in her workplace. “But Jackie…maybe if you would have tried a little harder to, you know, please the guys, smiled at them a little more, put on a little more makeup, maybe that promotion would have been yours.” At this moment, she quits her job. If her employer can’t see her worth, then he is not worth it. As a woman she has to work twice as hard to prove herself. And it’s not fair. But she doesn’t need this job. She takes her skills and expertise elsewhere, and makes herself truly useful in the world. Because she works hard. Because she is worth it. Because she matters just as much as any man in her workplace. She is a woman.

She is a woman.  She goes to the beauty salon. All she wants is to get her nails done. She walks in and sits down at one of the booths. “I’m sorry…” says one of the women. “You can’t sit there.” She doesn’t understand. Why can’t she sit there? She looks around the salon. And everyone is staring at her. But she can’t understand why. She asks where there is room for her. Another woman tells her that maybe she better go shopping for bigger clothes before trying to fix her nails. Her heart sinks. She looks at all the women. She knows immediately what they are thinking. She is pregnant. It was an accident. And he left her, only after giving her a black eye. Alone. How is she supposed to buy new clothes if she can’t even pay her rent? Here they are, these women from the outskirts of the city, dressed in brand name clothing and wearing pearl earrings. Legs covered, of course. Judging her. She looks down at her own body. Her shirt is too small, she knows. Her growing belly makes her belly button piercing show. Her high heels come from Good Will. She is wearing shorts that don’t cover her bruised legs. She looks back at the other women, who now avoid her eye contact. All she wants is to get her nails done. She walks through the wave of Chanel perfume and Coach bags and sits down in an empty seat. One of the workers is nice enough to attend to her. But she can still feel the wrath of the ladies, feel their eyes staring at her. Feel their eyebrows raise. Feel their whispers in each other’s ears. Someone utters the word “trash.” She almost begins to cry. She doesn’t belong here. She shouldn’t have come. But the woman working on her nails tells her not to worry and gives her a smile. This smile is enough to encourage her to stay. To keep going. To go to other salons. To wear whatever she wants. To show off her pregnant belly. To wear as much makeup as her heart desires. Because she has the right to wear whatever she wants. Because she can. Because she won’t be affected by the criticisms of her fellow women. Because she loves herself. Because they’re not the ones who have to deal with a big pregnant belly. Because she’s a fighter. She is a woman.

We should be treated equally

So let’s support one another

So that these stories like this don’t happen anymore J

Thank you for reading