The Power to Heal

By Emily McNeill

It was week three and between vomiting, diarrhea, fevers, and mysterious rashes, sickness was wrecking havoc on the group. In response Dr. PIchardo proposed a retreat centered around sanación or healing. After a short bumpy guagua (bus) ride, we arrived to our rural oasis in Bayaguana, We settled into a cozy log cabin surrounded by woods and other greenery with an accompanying cascading river.

The next day we started learning about and participating in different methods of holistic healing, including meditation, yoga, foot reflexology, acupuncture, and tea making. We split into pairs and groups to act as both recipients and practitioners. But before we began, one of the shamans from ANDA, Dr. Pichardo’s clinic, encouraged our participation by saying “We all have healing hands. We all have the power to heal.”

This statement struck me. For most of my academic life, I have been on the journey to becoming a doctor. I have been studying, observing, and volunteering in order to eventually have the ability to heal and cure others. But this ability has always been elusive, something that I can only achieve through hard work, drive, luck, prayers, and if accepted, four to six more years of formal education. I could not have healing hands yet because I knew nothing about the art of curing and the nuances of disease.

In the United States, the knowledge and power of healing is reserved for a small and elite class; doctors who have both worked through the system of medical education and have been chosen by it. When we are sick, we quickly seek the attention of these white-coated individuals, placing our trust in their expertise in that which we are ignorant. We believe that with their help, we can decipher what is happening to our bodies and learn how to fix it. The site of healing is the clinic or hospital and the source of healing is the medic. Without the doctor, we are more or less impotent in the face of illness.

But during our retreat, we all became healers and nature became our clinic. We all experienced renewal and release as we both completed and participated in the various practices of holistic medicine. The time away from the city to pause and introspect put us back in touch with a balanced state of health. With a bit of direction and more reflection we all have the power to heal. The art of healing is not a secret knowledge or a bounded gift, but an innate capacity within us all.

Energía

By Anshu Guar

“Cereeeeasa.”

“Maango.”

“Chinhoola.”

The voice of persistent vendors filled the air, some reaching farther than others. We walked along the narrow sidewalk along street side tiendas and garbage filled gutters.

To my left was a yellow walled cafe that served Chinese food. To my right was what I had mistaken for an ordinary street, the only sense of order amongst the moving vehicles being their increased tendency to honk and swerve rather than stop. The way people drove here reminded me of India. I turned away from the chaotic road towards my own steps when I noticed him.

His body was dampened with mucky gutter water. Black and white hairs clumped awkwardly in all directions. Each step he took was small and painful. I kept walking with our group to catch the next guaga, my mind falling a little ways behind. We were on our way to the Bonjee concert, a weekly festival in Santo Domingo, with a live band, tasty street food and a bountiful moments of Latin dancing. I had been looking forward to going all semester.

Our group had been waiting for a minute or so when a white minivan arrived, the corrador (who collects money from passengers) hanging on the edge the door repeating “Parque. parque.” We began piling inside, four to a seat. I looked back towards for a second before stepping in, not so subtle whispers of “Americanas” circulating the overcrowded space. The image of his crumpled wet body beckoned to me, haunting me at the same time. Just another piece of trash in the gutter.

The next morning was the first day of volleyball camp. Volleyball always appealed to me as a child. I started playing in elementary school, but never made it past the B team. A five minute walk from the barrio, the neighborhood in which we lived, a group of kids (mostly girls in either high school or middle school) practiced every day after school. I played around a few times the week before, during which I was reminded me how I never learned how to spike a ball or serve the ball overhand. I was impressed by how well each player complemented each other and how much I had to learn about the movements and coordination.

The camp marked the beginning of their summer. Something about working together in a physical sense as part of team always felt energizing to me. I was excited for the much needed exercise to justify the copious amounts of delicious food that Nairobi, my host mother, had been feeding me. Also this was my chance to learn how to actually play and especially how to spike to ball.

I walked to the school with Patricia, my host sister. At 21 years old, she is bronze, sweet and fierce, boasting a small frame, yet toned body. I always ask her how she stays in shape to which she laughs and says, by eating a lot. Upon entering the school there lay a small patch of grass, followed by a fairly large area of ground identifiable by the structures it contained. On the side closest to the patch of grass were the two hoops indicating a basketball court. On the other end of the school were a couple of nets held in the air, signifying two volleyball courts. A rather bulky tree overflowing with an oddly shaped green fruit claimed half the land of the second volleyball court. The schoolyard was contained inside sand colored walls of concrete decorated with various clusters of graffiti.

By this week some of the kids who had not spoken to me before recognized me and began asking me questions. What was my name. Where I was from. What I was doing here. Patricia filled in whenever I could not understand their rapid Spanish. Somehow the topic of race always came up in my conversations here. When I told them my parents were from India, one of the girls asked me if I was vegetarian. I nodded. Patricia started explaining how I was actually vegan, and do not eat any products from animals – including milk and eggs.

“No comes carne?” You don’t eat meat?

They looked confused.

” No.”

“Y no comes pollo?” What about chicken?

Their eyes widened.

“Pero no tomas leche tampoco?” But no milk either?

They look around at each other, shocked.

“Porque?” Why?

“No me gusta causarles dolor a los animales.” I don’t like to hurt animals.

At first everyone either thought that I was “loco in the coco” (my roommates expression for absolutely insane).. But Patricia surprised me when she explained my dietary choices to everyone in a way did not make me seem completely insane. She spoke as a matter of fact, that if she sees the chicken being killed in front of her, she would not be able to eat it.

“No me gusta tampoco.” I do not like it either.

We continued taking brief breaks after each drill, refueling our bodies with a relieving moment in the shade and ice cold water. About two hours into the camp, we working on returning a spike in a low squat stance. My quads were on fire when I heard a gasp that gave me an excuse to stand up, relieving my muscles. Every once in a while a ball went flying in some direction of the vast schoolyard and someone would go to retrieve it. This time two or three girls had collected in the area by the concrete wall. I joined them, nosing my way in between a few shoulders to see what was up. My heart immediately sunk and I held my breath.

A familiar furry ball of black and white appeared trapped underneath a rock. His crumpled wet body squirmed to break free.

“Meow. Meow. Meow. ” Every breath was an aching yelp. This month old kitten, separated from his mother, was fighting for his life. The signals from my brain to my muscles were suddenly cut. I watched motionlessly as one of the girls slowly lift the rock. When he was finally freed from the rock’s weight, he had little energy left to move. He lay there face down in the leaves, the slightest rise and fall of his back indicating mere life. This time I could not walk away.

“Anshu!” Patricia yelled, waiting for me to come finish the drill. By this point, I was the only one left by the wall. I scooted a nearby trashcan towards the isolate spot to guard him from any other stray volleyballs that could easily crush his weak body. Only for the next hour, and then I would return, I promised to both him and myself. We continued the drill followed by a game. My mind, in synch with my rapidly beating heart, was especially alert. I cringed every time a ball went anywhere near his direction, sprinting after it as everyone watched amused by my newfound energy and determination.
When camp came to an end around noon, I immediately started walking over to the spot behind the trashcan.

“Dejélo!” Leave him. Patricia said to me.

I was afraid she might not approve. The girls from volleyball formed a semi-circle facing me, an intrigued audience, waiting to see what would happen next. In my attempt to think on my feet, I told Patricia I wanted to take him to see Dr. Pichardo, the holistic doctor we were working with for the summer, without actually considering whether he would want to see a stray handicapped kitten I picked up off the street. Patricia held her ground, pursuing every method to convince me to leave him behind.

 

You should ask Dr. Pichardo before just showing up at his door. If there was nowhere for him to stay, our street with all the dogs would not be a safer place than this school. If you take him his mom would be searching for him.

Somehow the thought of leaving him behind for a second time frightened me more than anything else. But Patricia was persistent and almost had me convinced when the volleyball coach mentioned that if I left him he would probably end up in the trashcan. Patricia tried to say otherwise, but after hearing that nothing could stop me.

“No puedo,” I urged Patricia, apologetically but with authority. I can’t. Left with no choice, she grudgingly agreed, making it clear he could not enter our house. I nearly knocked her over with a hug, before running over to the concrete wall. He still lay face down in the leaves. I carefully scooped him up with a few leaves that had fallen from the unknown tree and held him close to my body. With little idea of what would happen next, I silently celebrated our small victory, praying for the best.

We all walked out of the school together. Everyone was fairly surprised that I had gotten my way. If my parents are right about anything, it is definitely their conviction that I am stubborn and headstrong. On the way out of the school one of the girls spotted a cardboard box filled with empty bottles.

“Espera ,” she told me. Wait. A few others helped her empty the box, which they presented to me. It was my turn to be surprised. I gave a gracious smile to the same people who thought I was “loco in the coco”, carefully placing him inside.

ANDA, the holistic medical clinic, is just a rocks throw away from the house we live in. Once we arrived at our street, I parted with Patricia to go seek out the options. Above the clinic is a two room apartment where Tim, Alicia and Noemi – our program directors from Cornell – live. Their outdoor balcony seemed like a safe place to start. Sometimes we would come hang out there before going to our medical rotations. I made my way up the narrow windy staircase to the balcony and silently placed the box on the floor. Over the course of the next few hours as people walked in and out was a myriad of reactions.

Faces twisted in disbelief.

“What did you do?”

“Are you serious?”

Disgust.

“What is that?”

“Oh my god, are those fleas?”

Curiosity.

“Where did you find it?”

“Is it alive?”

Concern.

“Let me Google what it can eat.”

“You should probably put in a T-shirt in the box or something to make it more comfortable.”

“Let me get some water.”

Excitement.

“What should we name him?”

Pity.

“Aww poor thing.”

Doubt.

“You can’t just pick stray animals off the street . . . they could have rabies.”

“It’s not going to survive.”

Dr. Pichardo was the person whom I had the most hope in, but he was also the person I was most afraid to ask. If he did not have an answer, I really had no idea what to do. Inside the box there was little sign of life. The slight rise and fall of his back had grown even more subtle. I tentatively made my way downstairs. Dr. Pichardo was standing outside in his signature black button down shirt and dark pants, a cigarette slid in between his two fingers. He always looked so put together, a combination of clean cut and rugged.

“Hay un gatatito . . .'” I stuttered, my Spanish failing me. There is a . . .

“Un que?” A what?

 

I tried again, explaining there was a kitten upstairs who needed a little bit of help. His copper colored forehead creased in confusion. Apparently the word for kitten is gatito, not gatatito. When we finally cleared the confusion, Dr. Pichardo gave me a bright smile.

“Vamos a ver.” Let’s see. I sighed in relief. We walked upstairs together, and I pointed out the box. Dr. Pichardo peaked inside. I braced myself to hear that this cat was already gone and there was nothing to do. Instead he surprised me by reaching into the box and gently taking the tiny weak body into his hands. Even I had been cautious of actually touching gatito, who looked like a soiled furball of disease. I borrowed my roommate’s baby wipes to get the muckiness off his coat, but even after persistent scrubbing he only looked slightly more sanitary.

Dr. Pichardo held him up at eye level, carefully examining his physical state, as if he was one of his patients. He pressed down firmly down on various parts of gatito’s body, to assess what was wrong. Even though it was difficult to see his fragile body responding in pain, I was both certain and grateful that he was in safe hands.

“Hay inflamación en su intestino.” There is inflammation in his intestine. Dr. Pichardo showed me the slightly raised pink area on his ashy white belly.

“Puede sobrevivir?” I asked. Will he survive?

“Veremos.” We will see.

 

I watched as Dr. Pichardo set him softly back in the cardboard box, placing his hands, fingers apart, just above gatito’s still scrawny body. He closed his eyes, the slightest crease of concentration forming on his forehead. Seconds turned into minutes as Dr. Pichardo remained motionless in this position. I paused to admire this man in front of me who cared for all walks of life, no matter what form, what state of health one was in. A little voice broke the silence.

“Meow.” The last sound gatito had made was four hours ago when he was trying to escape from under the rock. Dr. Pichardo smiled, picking him up from the box and placing him on the floor. One paw moved in front of the other, his hind legs dragging on the floor. His back legs looked dysfunctional, but he was walking.

Hold up. What had just happened? Here was this abandoned kitten who had made zero signs of movement or speech, barely breathing, unable to lift the weight of his own head. Here he was walking and talking on the cream tiled floor. Here he was taking sips of cloudy diluted milk water out of a small dish. Here he was, drastically better, by some invisible force.

“Sus manos son magicos,” I told Dr. Pichardo, nothing short of wonderstruck. Your hands are magical.

 

“Energía,” Dr. Pichardo stated, offering me a one word explanation. Energy.

He flashed me one more smile before going downstairs to check on his other patients. He said he would come back to check on him whenever he got a break. I waited with little gatito, who was exploring the floor with his front two paws. Dr. Pichardo mentioned his spine might be fractured. I wondered whether I made the right decision. What if I left him in the school? If a ball did hit him and knock him out? Perhaps that would have been better than prolonging his pain. But what if he could survive? What if he just needed a little bit of care to get him back on his feet?

There was no way of knowing. All I did know was when I saw him for the second time, helpless and vulnerable, I could not just walk away.

When Tim showed up to the apartment, he said that gatito could stay for the day but had to leave by night. He was allergic to cats. I went on a rampage asking everyone who came to mind, including my neighbors, for a safe place gatito could stay until he got better. After making little progress, I took the partially soiled cardboard box that was his temporary home in my hands and claimed a spot on the street right next to the black windy staircase.

I had been looking forward to go to an outdoor yoga class with everyone in the evening. Instead I sat on a piece of concrete next to the little creature who consumed my thoughts. What was he feeling right now? What would I want if I was in his place? Certainly not to be the middle of this street with menacing bark offs, radio played at an unbearable volume that vibrates the ground, and the obnoxious grumble of passing motorcycles. Yet a garbage filled gutter or under a rock in a desolate schoolyard did not climb at the top of my bucket list either.

I lightly rubbed my finger against his damp lackluster body as the smoggy sky darkened. A few people who had been hanging around ANDA came around towards the black windy staircase where I was sitting.

A pale skinned man with kind gentle eyes and ash colored scruffy hair was one of the first to approach me. Miguel. He peeked into the box, offering me sympathetic smile. I nodded silently. Without warning, he came close to gatito, with a something sharp in his hand. I defensively blocked the box, pushing his wrist away.

“Que esta haciendo?” What are you doing? He looked taken aback.

“It’s a healing rock,” he told me in English, with his hands up, revealing a glistening charcoal crystal.

“Oh.” I moved out of the way, embarrassed. “Por favor,” I insisted. Please.

Not the least offended, he came closer to gatito again, with the rock closed tightly in between his index finger and thumb. Miguel placed the rock above gatito’s head, his eyes closed with the same deep concentration as Dr. Pichardo’s just a few hours earlier. The small circle of people who were standing around ANDA and reformed around me and gatito. I sat in a trance. This whole healing energy thing . . . where did it come from? Why had I never heard about it before? What was it?

Miguel stood back up. He shuffled around in his pocket and pulled out a another rock, looking at me for permission. I nodded. Instead of reaching into the cardboard box, he reached for my hand. A little confused, I sat in silence as he placed the rock against my skin. After a moment, Miguel let go and looked at me with wide eyes.

“You have a lot of magnetism. A lot of energy,” he told me, astonished. I half laughed half cried in response, suddenly face to face with the absurdity of the situation. Everything was bubbling up at once. The fear of what would happen to little gatito. The oscillation of reactions towards his life, a life no different than yours and mine. The magic touch of Dr. Pichardo’s hands, which he called energía. The turn from feeling isolated on this noise-filled street to suddenly be surrounded by the peace and love of these compassionate people. And then to top it off, this complete stranger telling me that the same thing he had in his rocks and that Dr. Pichardo had in his hands, I had in me.

My stomach churned with perplexed excitement.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You have the power to make things happen. To transfer your energy to things you want,” he explained as if the answer was as simple as day. I let the idea settle with me. Using my energy. To make things happen. Things I want.

“Want to try something?” Miguel asked me, already rustling in his pocket for yet another rock. How many did he have in there? I nodded. With no explanation, he put the rock on the center of my forehead, asking me to concentrate. A cool planar structure tingled the surface of my third eye. Immediately I felt something between us. Me and the rock. And then we were one. A spiraling horn formed from my third eye, growing outward. The background changed from the fiery earth to starry skies while the horn stayed intact.

When I opened my eyes, Miguel was standing a good five steps away from me. I could have swore I still felt him holding the rock against my forehead. I looked around the lively street that for the last few minutes I had departed.

“Well . . .” Miguel prodded. Still dazed I glanced at him uncertainly.

“What did you see?” he asked curiously. I told him, a horn. Like that of a unicorn.

“Ahh un huelo,” he responded knowingly. He asked me which way it was facing, which I thought was a strange question to ask.

“Out towards the sky,” I said. What other way would it be facing?

“You have dreams that you can achieve. Inside you is the power to accomplish anything you want,” he told me without blinking an eye.

Later that evening, Johnny, who helps clean around at ANDA, agreed to keep gatito in his place until he recovered. He was the next victim of my hug attack. I was relieved that gatito would not have to spend the night alone on the street. I realized it did not matter what may have happened to him. What matters is that even in his rough state, he would live with dignity, amongst the positive energy of warmth and love.

Perhaps if I had not seen this energía manifest itself before my eyes, in giving gatito life and working its way inside my head, I would have dubbed the whole thing, including Miguel’s profound interpretations, as “loco in the coco”. Instead I smile in accord when I look at the sign upon entering ANDA which reads:

“Aquí nos creemos en milagros.” Here we believe in miracles.

Oye! Mira!

By Sally Stoyell

One of the things that keeps life interesting in my house is the presence of Elsa’s granddaughter Zoeth and two children she baby sits during the day, Eddy and Bryli. Zoeth, or Zoe, is seven, almost eight, Eddy is two, and Bryli is three. They are almost always there when we wake up, and don’t leave until later at night. Much of our time at our house is spent interacting with these three characters. I really enjoy talking and playing with Zoe. As a seven year old, must of what she wants to tell us is not that complicated, so I understand her much better than some adults. She is also really patient with me, as she learned on the first night that my already loose grasp of the Spanish language quickly disappears when she talks fast or tries to use slang. Every time Zoe or one of her friends sees Michelle or I walking down the road to our house they run at us and give us big hugs that almost knock us over. I love seeing how excited Zoe gets to see us. On days where we are busy with program activities and only come back for meals, Zoe always asks if we are leaving already. She loves to teach us her secret handshake, brush our hair, dance for us, or just ask us bunches of questions. One of our first nights in the DR, after dinner Zoe and her friend Laura decided to put on a show for us. They pushed our chairs back from the table, insisting that we were separated so that we could concentrate on them. They started out rapping to some popular song and ended up dancing along to it, even showing off their twerking abilities as they get into it. Over these past couple of weeks, Zoe has really started to feel like the little sister I never had. She even gave Michelle and me matching bracelets to remind us of her. She can be in the way at times, as all little siblings are, but she is really mature for her age, and I know she really loves having us around.

Even as I write this, Zoe is peeking her head into our room to say hi, and the two little boys rush into the room. Eddy immediately starts pushing buttons on my computer, so I pull him into my lap. He yells out “Oye! Mira!” to get my attention, and then looks around for something to show me. “Piscina!” he yells, and points at the plastic pool in the closet. They stay for a few more minutes before Zoe shoos them out to let us do some work in peace. The little boys are much less mature than Zoe, being two and three, and a much more common interaction with them is distracting them from touching my stuff by tickling them. They are fascinated by my phone, and love listening to the audiobook I am currently reading, even though they have no idea what it is saying. They are intuitive enough to figure out how to take pictures on my phone, and I have quite a few selfies of Eddy and Bryli as they steal my phone. Just like Zoe and her friends though, Eddy and Bryli run up and hug us every time we return home, and I know they love having us around too. Even though they bug us endlessly, life around here would be much quieter without them. They bring an excitement to the house that only little kids can, teach me about growing up in the DR, and make me feel like I am part of the family even after only a few weeks here.

Ven acá– a la cocina

Croquettas prepared by Shravya’s host dad, Cyprian for Tim and Alicia’s last night at in the Dominican Republic

By Shravya Govindgari

It’s a rainy day in the barrio- one of the first real rains since we arrived here two weeks ago. Not the kind of rain that trickles down stingily but instead the kind that floods the streets, cleansing all the dirt, drenching every uncovered being, and finally bringing in the long awaited cooler breeze.

The sound of pouring rain fades into the background as Annie and I walk into our pleasantly lit apartment. My host-mom, Doña Carmen, all smiles welcomes me with her usual “¿Mi hija como fue?” and a warm hug and kiss. I answer “muy bien.” She smiles and hustles us towards our room to relax for a bit. I slowly shuffle towards our room, my roomie walking in front of me. Before we enter our rooms and collapse on our beds in front of our beloved fan, our host-dad pops his head out of the kitchen at the end of the hallway, and says “Ven acá,” beckoning us towards the kitchen with an excited expression on his face. Curious and completely unaware of what he is inviting us into the kitchen for, we make our way. As soon as we are both inside, he declares: tonight you both will make croquetas for dinner. I will barely touch the food. Ironically enough, he says that while standing next to a plate of what looked like three big burritos that have already been prepared. Regardless, considering my past failures in the kitchen, I was excited to turn a new leaf and prepare dinner. I immediately turn to my Spanish translator and multiple-time Life Saver of the Day award winner, Annie, looking to confirm that “croquetas” in Spanish actually do mean croquettes and that our host-dad didn’t somewhere throw in a joke about how he is just pulling our leg and we are not actually going to be making dinner. Upon confirmation, we both get prepped to learn.

I soon learned that the “burritos” were actually dough mixed with onions, and green and red peppers, kneaded and divided into three large chunks, which I perceived in my hungry state to be burritos. Our host-dad shows us how to break tiny chunks of the dough and roll them into croquette shape between our palms. As Annie and I get to work molding the dough into bite-sized chunks, I hear Doña Carmen call for us on the other end of the house. Our host-dad yells: “ellos me estan ayudando,” –they are helping me. Laughing in disbelief, she enters the kitchen and tells off her husband for putting us to work without letting us relax. Our host-dad, whose intentions to teach us how to cook were reinforced after the last lesson where I broke an egg instead of cracking it gently, with a serious expression on his face replies that we are learning. Doña Carmen still unconvinced leaves.

While we keep working at the rather huge chunks of dough, our teacher is hustling to heat oil, prepare breadcrumbs for the crust, and make us juice from papayas all the while sharing with us his love for and history with food. Soon the oil is hot, croquetas are ready to be fried and before we know it, we are sitting in the cool breeze of the rainy night, eating hot croquetas. And for once, I am not wondering how these delicious rolls of happiness were made thanks to my host-dad.

Renaser

Annie and Arlette discussing their research project on gender and machismo on ANDA’s patio.

By Annie Fernandez

You walk into your methodology class half an hour late. 15 years of formal American education have taught you that you’ve basically just academically shot yourself in the foot. You’ve already ensured your place on the teacher’s black list – that is, if he finds the patience to not kick your late butt out of class upon entering. That’s what you’re thinking as you turn the doorknob of a criminology UASD classroom—about all the ways this professor could chew you out in Spanish for being late.

But alas, this is the Dominican Republic.

Has the class even started yet? Nope. Is anyone even in their seats? Of course not. They’re going around the room, greeting each other warmly, a kiss on the cheek, a “Qué tal?”, heard from every interacting human being in the room. If there weren’t desks in the room, you would be convinced it was a family reunion.

That’s what struck me most when we got here. Every Dominican I’ve met has treated me like family. We’ve been here two weeks, and I’ve already become close friends with kids in Renaser, a group of UASD students specifically interested in holistic health. In the short amount of time we’ve been here, they’ve showed us the old city, taught us how to dance salsa and merengue at the Bonyé on Sunday nights, and taken us to outdoor yoga classes in front of the Beaux Artes.

My favorite part of the program has been the incorporation of Renaser into our methodology class. Our research teams are comprised of both Cornell and UASD students. Dr. Pichardo, our mentor, who is also a holistic health practitioner, made sure that every group was thoroughly mixed. My teammates, Arlette and Sergio, are studying medicine and music, respectively, but are both equally fascinated by health care and holistic health. Through the research project, they’ve also become two of my best friends in Renaser. We decided to do our project on the culture of machismo and gender violence in Simón Bolivar, the neighborhood home to both our host families, and to ANDA, which is Dr. Pichardo’s holistic health care clinic. Simón Bolivar is one of the poorest neighborhoods in Santo Domingo, so access to health care is limited, and access to holistic health care even more so.

We’re currently in the process of planning out our experimental design, so this week the three of us took a trip to El Centro de Estudios de Género at Intec, which is one of the city’s most prestigious, private universities. That experience opened my eyes to a completely different part of Santo Domingo; much wealthier, cleaner, and safer than Simón Bolivar, Intec’s neighborhood sits next to Santo Domingo’s Botanical Gardens. Juxtaposing it with our barrio served to shed light on the socioeconomic disparities of the city. Intec and the UASD have similar reputations, but I noticed a socioeconomic gap between both universities as well. As Arlette and Sergio explained it to me, UASD students tend to come from poorer backgrounds than Intec students do, although both are considered great institutions.

All in all, I’m learning a lot about the social, educational, and health care systems of the Dominican Republic. Moreover, I’m getting to learn about these topics by discussing them at an interpersonal level with Dominicans who live these realities everyday. Because of the program’s set up, I also feel like I’m getting an authentic taste of Dominican lifestyle and culture.

Namaste

Outdoor yoga class at Palacio de Bellas Artes

By Sally Stoyell

This week, after working on my research project at the UASD (the university), some of our group decided to go to a local yoga class that a couple of the RenaSer students attend. We met up with the group at the metro stop nearest the UASD, and walked the few blocks down to where the class was held. We were in front of a large, impressive looking building, with pillars and statues in front. It was early evening at this point, so the weather had cooled off a bit, although it was still warm out. We spread out on the small quad in the back of the people already gathered for the class. The yoga teacher came back to greet us all personally and introduce himself. He was very welcoming and excited to have us all there. As we spread out the towels we had brought, some of the women in the front of the group asked if we wanted their extra mats rather than just our towels on the hard ground. As the class went on, the teacher made sure that we were all following the class and understanding. The class ended with giving hugs to everyone in the class. It reminded me of the way people kiss on the cheek to greet us here. The sense of welcoming I found at yoga class I have found in so many people here so far. All of the families have welcomed us into their homes, the students have helped us out a lot, and when we toured hospitals, people were happy to show us around and explain their work to us.
​The yoga class consisted of mostly stretching in the beginning, some poses to strengthen muscles, and then a sort of meditation. It was a really calming and peaceful time. I would have thought I would fall asleep from the meditation, but I was still energized from the exercise so I was able to listen to the teacher and just be peaceful. It put me in a great mood afterwards. After yoga class we walked down to a park near the water and sat by the water for a few minutes just watching the waves. It seemed like the perfect complement to yoga. One of the differences I have experienced in the DR so far is the pace of life here. It is much more chill, with a lot of down time and time to just talk and hang out. Everyone here seems to hang outside their houses and talk for hours. It is very different from the rush of classes and activities I usually have at Cornell. Life is much calmer here.
​One of the phrases that the yoga instructor kept using over and over was ‘intentalo’ or ‘try it’. He told us that it doesn’t matter if we can’t do a pose or a stretch perfectly, it just matters that we try. I tried to go along with this and attempted a headstand when he told us to, and I sort of managed it for a few seconds before I fell. That phrase has been helpful for the entire trip as well. As I try to use Spanish here, I know that I will sometimes fail, especially with grammar, but I just have to try and attempt to say what I want to anyway. That way I will hopefully learn and get better as the summer goes on. Yoga class was a lot of fun, and is a good example of some of what I have been experiencing so far in the DR.

Secreto Musical

By Julia Smith

Something that I had looked forward to immensely about immersing myself into Dominican culture was the love for music and dance. Last Tuesday night, Anshu, our host brother Miguel, our host sister Patricia, Noemi, Tim, Alicia, and I hopped in a taxi to go to a dancing event called Secreto Musical. I was feeling very excited and curious, because I had no idea what to expect as the night unfolded.

When we arrived to the event and stepped out of the taxi, I realized that we were entering a very crowded, hot, and sweaty bar—filled with only people over the age of 50, all of whom turned their heads to us as we entered. As our eclectic group of Americans and Dominicans entered the dark, humid bar, I could not have guessed that this strange night would be one of my favorites of the trip thus far.

The bar was packed. Most people were sitting around tiny tables in little plastic chairs; others were dancing on the small crowded dance floor. We made our way to the back corner of the bar, the only place with a few open seats left.

As we sat in that back corner, I observed the people around us. It amazes me that the second a song comes on everyone knows immediately if it is a bachata or salsa or merengue or son. Secreto Musical played mostly son, and we spent the night trying to learn it. As per usual, we eased our way into dancing by practicing in the corner, as far away from the dance floor as possible. I started dancing with my host sister Patricia. She is such a good dancer and teacher that she can make anyone look like they know what they’re doing. I have so much fun learning from her.

Eventually, after learning some basics with Patricia, a kind man saw my eagerness and asked if would dance with him. I accepted his offer and as I struggled through the steps, three ladies sitting on barstools behind me cheered me on the whole time, shaking their backup instruments and waving their arms in the air. Two men sitting near me clapped as I danced and gave me thumbs up at the end.

As the night progressed I danced with everyone who offered, friends and strangers, eventually making it onto the dance floor and out of the corner. I wanted to have every possible opportunity to practice. At one point a sort of conga line formed and nearly the whole bar participated, dancing over a small fire that was lit on a plate on the dance floor. Six other friends and colleagues of ours joined us about an hour after we arrived. We danced and danced until the bar closed. I had been concentrating so hard and felt so present in the moment that I didn’t even notice that the whole bar had emptied out until we ourselves went to leave.

There is something exceptional about music and dancing that brings people closer and allows strangers to share in something special together. I was surprised by how supportive everyone was, especially people I had never met before. They were so eager to teach me and cheer for me as I, clearly an outsider, tried to take part in their dance and their culture.

It can be very intimidating feeling like an outsider wherever you go. No matter what I wear, how dark I tan my skin, or how confidently I greet people with the Dominican expression, “Qué lo que?” it is clear that no one would mistake me as a Dominican. However, I am beginning to realize that the Dominican spirit is very inclusive. If you can make room for one more person at the table, you do it. Even though it is clear to everyone that I am a foreigner, I have felt welcomed into the community here with open arms. The more the merrier is certainly a Dominican sentiment. And with this recognition, I look forward to every opportunity I have to keep connecting with and taking part in Dominican culture—especially through dancing.

 

 

“Ya llegó la luz?”

Michelle Garcia and Sally Stoyell with their host mom Elsa

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By Michelle Garcia

In my family, my host mom, Elsa, is the main figure in our household. However, there are always visitors in and out of the household, I almost always forget that she technically lives on her own. Almost everyday, her seven year old granddaughter, Zoeth, comes to stay with her as she attends school close by and her parents live in San Isidro, a town a little further away from Santo Domingo. Additionally, she babysits two little boys, ages two and three, during the week as their mothers are at work. She even mentioned to me that she has been babysitting the older child since he was seven months old and as she explained it to me with laughter, “it’s like they’re my kids, except I didn’t give birth to them!” I also see this connection on behalf of the kids, as they both call her ‘mama’, just like Zoeth does. She reminds me a bit of my own grandmother, whose house was also kind of the center of our universe, always filled with her own children and grandchildren.
​During the past two weeks, I think one of the things that have surprised me the most is how the family works around the electricity in the house. The electricity for our entire block will come and go throughout the day and in our house specifically, it will come on around 10PM and stay until 5AM, sometimes 7AM if we’re lucky. Many housed have generators so that the current constantly runs, but Elsa got rid of her generator not too long ago as it became too expensive to maintain. At home, I’m used to the electricity always running apart from the occasional time that the light goes out and we just places candles around the house until the light comes back on. I was recently telling her how when there is a blackout back home in New York City, the entire city goes into a frenzy as it means that public transportation is out, people cannot get home, and to be frank, people are just used to always having the light ready to turn on. She just continued to shake her head, saying how her brother who used to live there told her the same thing, but here, everyone is just used to it, even planning their day around it. For example, this morning, she did not go on her daily morning walk as she noticed that the light was work and decided to take advantage of it and cook and do laundry- or “aprovechar a la luz”. Slowly, I’ve become more accustomed to it and have planned my schedule at home a bit more around it as well.
​ Reflecting on this past week, one particular conversation concerning leaving the barrio comes to mind. After dinner, Elsa and I began to talk about where her kids live, as all of them still reside in Santo Domingo except for one daughter who lives in Italy with her husband and son. She was telling me how sad she was that she couldn’t be there for the birth of her grandson, how she felt when her daughter decided to leave home, and how she herself had never gone too far away, for she was also raised in the house she currently lives in. It reminded me of my own family, particularly how Cornell is five hours away from home, a concept that seems to be very American, as I’ve often been asked why I don’t go to school closer to home. Here, as in many other Latin American countries, many people don’t stray too far from where they grew up, continuing the community atmosphere across generations. Just by daily interactions, it is obvious that the people on this block care for each other and are not just neighbors, but have been family in the making over time.

Qué es esto?

Dr. Angel Pichardo leads a Qualitative Research Methods class at the Autonomous University of Santo Domingo (UASD), with students from the Cornell Global Health Program and the UASD.

by Emily McNeill

“Que es esto?”  or “What is this?” Dr. Pichardo is standing at the front of the classroom waving around a bottle of water. I’m watching him, eyes squinted and pen in hand, straining to hear his voice over the whir of the air conditioner.

One of the Dominican students responds confidently, “Una botella de agua.” Dr. Pichardo repeats the question, “Que es esto?” More answers flood in. “Un recurso, un contendedor de plastico, una mercancia, etc.”

This was one of the many reflective exercises that Dr. Pichardo had put forth during the trip so far. This class was one of the first lectures of our course on Participatory Action Research at la UASD, the Universidad Autonóma de Santo Domingo. Before we begin our research projects with the students from la UASD, Dr. Pichardo is orienting us on the ins and outs of qualitative research. The question “Que es esto?” and the bottle of water were used to demonstrate the importance of recognizing subjectivity in the process of investigating.

The perception of a single object, such as a bottle of water, can change from person to person and henceforth affect how they approach his or her research. But after I left that day’s class, I began to think about how “Que es esto?” applied not only to my research topic, but also to the trip overall.  Ever since I had stepped off the plane, I had been inundated with rapid bits of Spanish, weaving traffic, new foods, strange faces, and different customs. Initially, it was easy to view everything as a burden, or a difficulty, or a barrier, or a problem.

The responses to each time I asked myself “Que es esto?” or formed an opinion on anything encountered were tainted by the discomfort that comes from leaving behind everything one is used to for a completely new environment. So then I began to rethink how I was viewing my experience so far and how my subjectivity was influencing my participation in the trip.

As I consciously reflected on viewpoint, I was able to give not only multiplicity to my thoughts, but also positivity. Spanish became a learning opportunity rather than a communication barrier. The traffic and noise became a source of energy and excitement rather than a stress.  The different customs became a source for rethinking the one’s that I considered my own rather than a discomfort. “Que es esto?” and subjectivity is not only important for formal research in the classroom or in a community, but for the informal investigation that takes place within oneself whenever they participate in an experience like the Cornell Global Health Program.

Making an effort to take on multiple viewpoints has changed this trip from simple an academic requirement to the opportunity of a lifetime.