The World Is Not My Caribbean

Driving down the road, so many things still remind me of the Dominican Republic. The robust lady swathed in cheap purple fabric, gyrating in the doorway of a hut to music that moves the very soul of her. Mangy dogs. Kids that run after cars and motorcycles, hoping for a lift. And yet, this isn’t the Caribbean. Both do many of the same things, but never with the same intensity. People don’t smile and visit as much here. They can’t afford to. And they certainly don’t give as much, for the same reason. They give everything they can, maybe everything they have. But what they have is significantly less than most other people in the world. They laugh and yell, but more reservedly, less frequently. They trust, but not as blindly. And by doing these things, they survive.

The two auxiliaries that I hired several months ago to work with my youth groups are two of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet. For the work they do, they receive 50$ a month. They have families. They live far away. They spend hours every week on their bicycles to earn this money that is vital for their survival. And last weekend, while at church, one of them was robbed. Someone came to his house, took everything of use, which couldn’t have been much in the first place, and then set fire to the mud and grass hut. Now he literally has nothing but the clothes on his back. And when I met him at the office, he smiled and was just as polite as usual, though his face showed exhaustion beyond anything I’ve ever known.

Incidents like this leave me reeling; how could something so devastating happen to someone so good who has so little? It’s more than unfair, worse than unholy. And what can I do, other than fumble around in my purse and awkwardly offer him a few bucks, which he accepted gracefully? And place another call to the city office, where they have yet again forgotten to arrange his monthly salary.