November 7, 2009 It was the big day.  I woke up early, brewed my coffee, and reviewed my list of things to do.  As I was not sure I would have time to do it all, I had made a schedule, with time durations and everything.  By 1 o’clock, I was supposed to be bathing and putting on a skirt for the first time since early 2008.  Everything was going smoothly, my helpers were surprisingly not waiting till the last minute and before I knew it, the morning had passed, the location was ready and it was time for me to put up my “surprise” for everyone.  As I walked around pasting pictures of the last year, I started to get that sinking feeling one gets when the big day you have worked towards for so long, finally arrives.  A mixture of nerves and the ominous end got me choked up as I went through my speech.  The day I never thought would be here, had come and no, not my wedding.  The inauguration of the Community Center of Loma Verde. In typical Dominican fashion, we were unable to start because one of the heads of the table did not arrive till an hour and a half after the official start time.  Once we did start though, it went too fast…an extremely emotional prayer, the National Hymn (where I just hummed, still don’t know the words), my speech which lasted an eternity and I got choked up in my first few sentences (are my eyes sweating?), laughter which quickly turned to tears when Mari said they had to return me to my parents now, watching Efrain make the entire room well up just by standing up, crying, and unable to speak, my contractor’s amazing speech about how proud he was to be part of our project because of the good for his community as well as because of the role the women of the community played outside of the kitchen, my boss’ speech recognizing that only a little over two years ago she had held a meeting in that very spot and never could have imagined this day, and finally what turned into the community’s recognition of my various projects over two years.  Then came the big surprise, they were not following my agenda anymore and fussing with some bag that appeared…they had made me a plaque, my name is spelled wrong, the date is off, but it is the best plaque in the world because it came from my campesinos. After the ceremony, most of my community and some of my closest PCV friends then celebrated to Feli Martinez’ merengue tipico band.  The event had been a success.  The project has been completed.  My community and I achieved our goal…the Community Center andLibrary of Loma Verde have been completed.  It was a good day, the proudest of my life thus far.  Not even of myself, but of the community I have shared this journey with, the people that have been there everyday, and mostly the man (Efrain) that made his own lifelong dream come true.  

November 1, 2009 That is the only word to describe it.  Since my birthday, life hasn’t stopped for a second.  I struggle to find the time to clean my house, let alone write a blog.  I have been so exhausted when night comes lately, that I have only read a couple books in the last few months (I will have read over 50 in the last two years.)  And the rare moments I do have some brain power, computer charge and alone time, I have had to dedicate to my Graduate School applications.  Even as I write it I can’t believe that I am actively planning my life after Peace Corps.  Seems like just yesterday, there was no life after Peace Corps.  I was going to be a volunteer for eternity…November 2009 was in some distant future that I couldn’t even wrap my head around.  And now I am here.  And it is a whirlwind. I just returned from a whirlwind weeklong trip to the States, complete with a beautiful and tear-jerking wedding, a quick sample of the months to come with my amazing friends, a short but sweet visit with family, a wet but wonderful 24 hours in Boston, successful trips to two graduate schools and a reminder of why I want to live in New York with a Pinback concert on top!  A week ago today, I was at a perfect wedding in La Jolla and now I am sitting back on my porch, with the sun going down, bachata blasting, my kids chasing their plastic bottle filled with rocks and it feels like I just woke up from a dream.  And I did.  To live in the States is a dream and I am lucky enough to be able to realize it.  Now all I have to do is go back and never forget that this “dream” I have lived the last two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer was real, very real.

“Joa!”  Oh no, the muchachos are back tonight.  Probably can not wriggle out of this for a third night in a row.  So, I get dressed in the most appropriate outfit that is somewhat clean and I head out with the boys.  As we walk, I inquire about the significance behind my presence at tonight’s event.  “Esta bien que no soy evangelica, ni religiosa?”  “Yo puedo pararme alli en los lados, verdad? No tengo que sentarme con los otros?”  With quizzical looks, I get halfass nods…not encouraging.  I am heading to an Evangelical Campana (campaign) where conversion is the goal and I have no idea what to expect, except for lots of noise that I have been hearing all week long.  It is getting dark as we walk up.  The grass has been cleared just for the week-long event.  There are benches, drums, cheese-graters, lights dangling from sticks, a stereo system, a generator, and of course a mob of Evangelicals.  In my site, about 85% are practicing or a variation of Catholic and the others are Evangelicals whom do not drink, ni smoke, ni dress casual, ni dance, ni listen to non-Evangelical music, ni nada.  The women must wear skirts and never seem to wear their hair down and the men are always in pants and close-toed shoes.  They tend to be hard-workers (they are never hung over), they go to church a lot, and love to sing about Jesus.  And oh were they singing as I walked up.  The drums are banging, cheese-graters grinding, and the Evangelicals clapping, singing, jumping, and praying.  I look over the sea of my neighbor’s faces, some intent, some glowing, and some gleeful.  The faces I do not know come from other campo’s and their children are staring at me like the old days.  My eyes well up, my grin is from ear to ear as I watch these wonderful people come together in such a state of love and community.  As the song goes on, the faces, noises, motions become more and more intense.  I notice that my hands are clenched from the anxiety of it all.  Everything has reached its level of climax and I feel uneasy.  One of my Dona’s falls to the floor, convulsing and I catch myself in time not to scream…it is just the Holy Spirit, Jo, not a seizure.  Finally, the song reaches it’s end, the sermon’s begin and I can relax and just wait for the next song/rollercoaster to begin…25 was a good year.

As the airplane takes off, I am ecstatic to have the window seat, per usual.  I love watching the world pass by down below and trying to recognize landmarks.  A beautiful day in the Dominican Republic, I have a clear view of the coastline below me.  As we fly north, the campos are in clear view.  I note how nice the villages out by the airport seem, as they are on a grid with dirt roads and the tin roofs are all in a line.  I smile, lean back and observe my own love for this country.  A quick four hours and I am back to my nose pressed against the glass, straining to see Nueva Yol come into view.  As the houses are streaming down below, a knot in my stomach starts to grow.  These houses are also on a grid, but the roads are paved.  And the roofs are not made out of tin, there are cars on every road, in every driveway, there are swimming pools in almost every backyard!  Just as I think I should probably pull the window shade down, the grids disappear and my pending panic attack goes from potential to certain.  The houses have turned into mansions, even from this high up.  Not only do the houses have pools, they have tennis courts.  When one house has it’s own personal baseball field, I realize tears are falling.  The blatant disparity is too much for me and I am crying because everything below me looks like a shiny brand new toy and only a few hours ago I was passing over something from the Salvation Army.  The same disparities exist in our own country, one can see them everyday in any major city, but from a bird’s eye view, it was jolting.  I am only able to pull it together when the plane lands and the entire plane (all Dominicans) burst into applause.  I laugh at myself and remember where the real beauty of that island lies, in the people.

April 22, 2009 Sometimes, life hurts.  Going through these painful times is a part of everyone’s life.  But the expression of this pain is something of a luxury.  Coming from my family, the expression of pain was always encouraged.  Crying was only natural (if you know my Dad, you already knew this) and communicating our emotions was a mandate.  Well, let me be honest here, if you know my Mom, you know that keeping it to yourself is just an impossibility.  My site does not have this opportunity.  People are always leaving, moving, dying and couples are always cheating, breaking up, and fighting.  My community has divisions across family lines and feuds that have existed for years.  There is too much pain to be expressed.  There is no time to wallow in misery.  There is no understanding of tears when not at a funeral.  So today, when I was informed that my Tata was leaving, that the best part of many of my days was no longer going to be here, I had to hold back my tears.  I couldn’t tell anyone why I had to quickly go home.  I had no one to cry with, no one that seemed to share my sadness.  Her grandparents were relieved to not have to raise her and her 4 year-old brother.  Instead of admitting to me that they will also miss her, I was reminded that her mother should be the one to raise her.  The practicality as opposed to the emotions were articulated.  There I was, on my project partner’s porch, saying goodbye to the girl I had seriously considered taking home with me, and I had to pretend to joke while I held back my tears.  Goodbye’s can be painful.  Whether it be long-term, short-term, or undetermined, they can really hurt.  This particular one got to me.  It struck me really hard.  Most likely because it is my first of many in the coming months.  Although coming here was a challenge, leaving here will be almost unbearable.  

April 6, 2009 If I have said it before, just let me say it again.  Peace Corps is SO weird sometimes!  The role of a Peace Corps Volunteer is so eclectic.  When I arrived at my site, I was ever so politely informed by community that my set expectations were potable water and a community center.  No worries, you have two years.  (Please note the sarcasm.)  I didn’t actually think either of these two “lifelong dreams” of my project partner would actually come to fruition.  But here I am, a year and a half later, the extremely clueless construction foreman who not too long ago, thought that “barilla” was sand…it is steel rebar, slight difference.  But we ARE moving forward, however slowly.  Due to the “community” aspect of our community center, the project belongs to the people in my site.  Pleasant way of saying, they must provide all of the manual labor.  This presents its own set of challenges, one can imagine.  Today though, when our “maestro” came to check over the last few weeks of work, I had the opportunity to see ownership blossom. The last few weeks have been tough.  “Semana Santa” presented an impassable roadblock, everyone was on vacation for a week.  The job that needed to be done was to shape the rebar.  This requires hours of work; measuring, cutting, and bending steel bars.  In the end, the majority of work was done by my project partner (duh) and Chipiao.  Waiting for our Maestro all day, I didn’t realize how nervous and anxious I was becoming until he showed up at my door.  As we walked to the work site, I was thinking which would be worse: A. The last few weeks of work was worthless or B. Hundreds of dollars was wasted.  Approaching the columns, the young man with the maestro laughed out loud at my face.  I didn’t breathe until we had looked over everything and the “maestro” looked at us and said, “Yo no se como decirlo, el trabajo es bonito.”  My favorite moment was not then, nor realizing we had done a huge part of the work free of cost.  My favorite moment of today was watching Chipiao’s when he ran out of his house to hear what the “maestro” had said.  The anxiety was imprinted on his face.  He spent days in the hot sun, sweating and working for free.  We relied on his “expertise” (he sometimes works construction) every step of the way.  The worry melted away into a huge s*^%-eating grin when I shouted “Dijo bonIIIIIto!”  I couldn’t have been happier to repeat it each time he asked me: to his family, his friends, and his friends’ families.  I will keep on repeating it, my workers did a beaUUUUUtiful job.  I had nothing to do with this beautiful job, I didn’t give any directions and I didn’t tie one piece of steel to another, but I am so proud of it, rather proud of them.

March 3, 2009 If I would have known that I would teach twenty or so Dominican teenagers to put condoms on platanos, maybe I would have made some different choices in my life.  And then again, maybe not.  Explaination: I taught a Healthy Choices class to twenty five (give or take) young girls in my site.  The topics ranged from Discrimination to HIV/AIDS.  The girls ranged from 11 to 25.  Their attendance ranged from 7 to 28, depending on the day’s theme. (As you can imagine, the platano activity was a crowd pleaser.)  My enthusiasm ranged from week to week and my idealism ranged right to the very end.When it came time for the final test, everyone wanted to take it.  Even the ones who had only showed up once.  At first, I naively believed that the girls just really wanted to take a test and show off their scholastic abilities.  Then I remembered their school attendance records and realized…they wanted to take the test, so they could attend the graduation.  I was too late in this realization, therefore I had a LARGE graduation.  In the end, only the girls that attended every class became Multipliers, the other were Participants.  As a picture is worth a thousand words, this was my Escojo Prom, I mean Graduation:  I tried not to dwell on the many pesos spent on their hairdo’s and nails, and watched them enjoy their day.  It was their day, and even if it only marked their attendance to two classes, they got the chance to show their community (over a hundred people came to the ceremony) that they had participated in the first Escojo Mi Vida course in Loma Verde.  Yes, you read that right…Escojo Mi Vida Part Two,  coming this summer!

March 24, 2009It has been over a year and a half.  I have been in this country, serving as a PCV for a long time.  It all feels natural now.  I am less overwhelmed by the countries lunacy.   I feel at ease in a house without basics.  I require little to no luxuries.  I do not get astonished or exasperated as often.  What once would have led me to a ten paragraph blog-rant, now rolls right off my shoulders as an everyday part of my life.  Because this is now so truly my life.  It feels right to be here, I want to be woken by roosters in my own bed.  I am happy here and it is much more difficult for this country to surprise me.  What does surprise me?  That last sentence…

So...I have been blog absent the last couple months and I hate to admit the reason.  My computer died.  The unreliable electricity burned it out.  And unfortunately, I have pen-writer's block.  I can no longer write without my keyboard.  Nothing seemed to come out well.  I could not seem to get any of my computer work done, given my attention span at the Peace Corps office.  Luckily though for my sanity, I had insurance on the old computer and am back to the land of productivity.  At least I hope.  

Off and on, off and on…the boy sits there, turning it off and on.  The pen light on, then off.  Each time, the boys face lights up.  El sabe como prender la luz! He knows how to turn on the pen light!  “Joa, mira! Yo prendi!”  Off and on!  He is four years old, wanders around in the same outfit for days, rarely seems to be bathed, his nose consistently running profusely and he has bloody knobs on his head.  His speech impediment is difficult to understand and everywhere he walks seems to be heading nowhere. As wonderful as my community is, it still has its faults.  And the treatment of this boy is one of them.  He is slower, dirtier and poorer than the others.  He gets yelled at more, hit more and teased more.  He is the best behaved child in my house everyday, yet everyone that enters tells him to “Deja eso!” or “Sal de aqui!”  His mom is constantly with his disabled sister and hardly has time to notice him.  One day, she didn’t hear his screams as some idiots placed him on a moving car, scaring him to death.  But today, here he sits with this pen…off and on.  And I am having one of my many moments.  Where I watch him and can only think of how I want to save him.  One of the moments where the pain of leaving him is glaring.  One of my moments where another attachment to this community is realized.  One of those nights where the mere thought of leaving this behind brings tears to my eyes.  Not every night, but they go off and on.  

We had our 1 Year In-Service Training and it was so incredible to see what our Community Economic Development volunteers have been up to. We have such a close-knit family and I was so proud of my colleagues and friends. Our inspirational trainer, Tim, handed us back our Aspiration Statements that we wrote before coming into the country. And of course, being the Mamey (orange) that I am…one who beats to their own drum…I didn’t follow instructions and came up with a paper that seems quite relevant and poignant to my first year of service. So I would like to share it, because that is what I do…share my innermost feelings and embarrass myself over the World Wide Web, it’s what I do best, so here it is: “It’s difficult for me to write about my motivation to join the Peace Corps today. Today, I am feeling sad about leaving. I am torn about saying goodbye to my friends and family. I am anguished over leaving the life that I love here. But the more I think about my decision, the more I am convinced that this is an important step in my life. This is what living and taking risks is about. Questions and doubts are instrumental in learning about who you are and what you are really made of. Although I am trying not to hold expectations for my experience, there is one thing that I am sure of. I expect that there will be many days like this one. Days when I will wonder if this was the right decision and days when I will doubt if what I am doing makes sense. But hopefully, I will know in my heart, as I do today, that making this commitment for two years is what I need to do.

It has been a long-term dream of mine to join the Peace Corps. The premise of the Peace Corps has always intrigued me. My main motivation for making this commitment is to have the opportunity to immerse myself within a culture and work towards a common goal with the local people. Everything about my assignment excites me and lights me up when I think or talk about it. My assignment seems to be filled with possibilities. I am looking forward to using my own ingenuity and ambition to achieve my goals. Not only do I aim to be inspired by my work, but I also hope to be inspired by a new culture and people.

Personal gains are achieved when one takes on a challenge as an opportunity and with an open mind. My main goal for the next two years is to accept every setback and hardship as a learning experience. I aspire to learn more about myself and the world around me, while hopefully making a difference, however small or large, in people’s lives. I dream of giving back to the world that has given me so much in whatever way I can. Although today I am sad to be leaving San Francisco, I expect that when my time comes to leave the Dominican Republic, I will feel the same sadness.”I guess I knew what I was talking about…

December 1, 2008

I have been so lucky…I have had so many visitors. Visiting a PCV can be quite an experience. It is challenging to the individual, but also to the relationship with the volunteer. Space can be limited, travel can be rocky, and difficult situations may arise around every street corner. In my opinion, every visitor I have had has left with a much stronger, closer relationship with me. They have shared a part of my life that I treasure and can not even begin to describe with just words. When Mom and Dad came I craved their advice and was ecstatic to watch approval grow into their love of my community. With Leah and Al, they went beyond their expected friendship and got me through an extremely difficult point in my service, without fully understanding Peace Corps…they were so unbelievably there for me. Hall and Chip gave me a sense of normalcy and their detour on the way to St. Martin was beyond appreciated! When Jamey (older bro) and Amy (older bro’s girlfriend) came to visit I thrived off of showing Jamey every inch of my life and growing closer and Amy became one of my best friends. Chey’s visit was a trip without possible explanation, we went through something together and came out of it closer than I thought feasible after ten years of friendship. This is how it was with Chrissy’s (little bro) visit to the DR. I was so proud of how he flourished on his first trip to a developing country without a resort involved. His attitude towards life is contagious and I hope to be like him some day. Jamey’s assessment of Chris only became solidified…I have never met anyone who does not love my little brother. It is the truth. We (my community and my PC friends) already miss you! I love you Chrissy!

November 14, 2008 Lately, I have craved to be a “normal” 25 year old. I’ve been lonely, not due to lack of friends here or there but because of the significantly huge age gap between my “best friends” and I. I spend the majority of my free time with pre-school age kids (not to mention I teach at the new pre-school once a week, explanation later) and teenagers. I love my babies, but they crawl all over me and I love my teens, but I have to draw a moral line for certain activities (aka drinking, hunting boys). So in my quest for appropriate activities with my teenagers, I convinced a group to hike up into the loma’s (hills) with me. Surprisingly, they were beyond enthused. We were going to Los Pinos and I looked forward to it all week. Departure time was set for 6am, but no one showed till 7:30…except for the Gringa (will I ever learn?) We had made our lunch, ok…they made lunch and I purchased the platanos. We were making a day of it. It had rained the day before, so about ten minutes up the mountains, we were covered in mud up to our knees, but I felt right at home (did I mention my best friends are toddlers?) Passing through neighboring campos, we were gawked at when we mentioned our destination…Dominicans do not typically climb their mountains for fun the view. The houses became more and more sporadic. And soon, it was just us, a unfrequented path, and random livestock. The scenery was typical for my site at first, a cacao forest with creeks and green everywhere. But soon, the cacao pods were no longer strewn across the path. The flora took on much more of a jungle appearance with vines hanging down, trees scratching my face, and plants growing every which way. And suddenly…Los Pinos! If you haven’t realized this, (I didn’t till I was on my way up and I actually speak the language) los pinos are pine trees! Yes, there are pine trees on this Caribbean island. Now, I am no flora/fauna expert, but to me this was an oddity. Here I was, looking out on the view of the surrounding hills, tropical forests, villages, Santo Domingo, and finally the Caribbean Sea with pine trees mixed into my vista. Pine trees go with snow and Tahoe, but here I was, sweating like a you-know-what in church amongst the pine trees. Once we reached the top, we had a beautiful view, I held a photo shoot and then we walked down a bit for some shade so that we didn’t melt in the sun. The seven of us spent a couple hours sitting in a tree, talking about nothing, and eating our lunch. I was six years senior of the oldest one, but I couldn’t stop laughing as we made fun of eachother, listening while they gossiped about neighbors, and smiling while I goof-balled it up. Although in my old life I would have seen myself as the odd man out in this situation…I just seemed to fit. Just like the pine trees on the Caribbean island, we just work here.

November 13, 2008Tonight. One year ago tonight. I slept with rats in my mattress. It was the beginning of my Peace Corps Service. And I spent it with rats. Not a picture for the brochures, but Peace Corps nonetheless. I curled up in a ball, held on tight, and vowed to somehow get through it. There were days I really didn’t think I would make it here… It was a year ago and now I am Joa. I am more cynical, physically stronger, enjoy living alone, extra obstinate, speak Spanish, have a higher inclination to self-deprecating humor, much braver, better vocabulary, less vain, uber-creative at increasing my productivity level, and realized that little kids share my level of maturity (they laugh at the word “poop” with me, “caca” in Spanish, I mean…how do you NOT laugh?) I still think too damn much, my brain goes nuts with too much time, which is basically the only thing I have in abundance here. I still miss home, miss the life I left. I still crave macaroni n cheese and eat it twice a week, which leads me to I still can’t cook. I still argue when I am right, so all the time. I still thrive off of a nice dinner, good wine, and even better company and conversation. I still flourish with independence and crave it. I guess what I want to say is I am still Jo, just plus the “a.” I am the Jo from home, but prefer bathing in a river, carry all my water to my house, and kill critters without much of a flinch. But after the kickoff to the last year, who wouldn’t be a little rougher around the edges?(I just had to post this, my baby is just too precious here...)

There are so many sayings about success and failure. You know the ones, your teachers have been encouraging you with them since kindergarten. In the Peace Corps, a volunteer is confronted with this head on. It is no longer just a saying, it is a part of everyday. Because our personal lives and professional lives are completely interwoven, our successes and failures hit much closer to home. When you hold a meeting, talk about it for weeks, work for hours on the content, and then your host mom doesn’t show up (nor anyone else for that matter), the failure can be devastating. Feelings of embarrassment, frustration, hurt, and betrayal mix together to create an unhealthy concoction of personal failure. The reality, of course, is that it wasn’t actually a failure. This is something I have learned over the last year. Every time I have experienced this dreadful feeling of personal and professional failure, I have had no choice but to reevaluate and try it again. Literally, no choice, I have nowhere else to go and my neighbors (that can hear me pee) are my “co-workers.” Example: When I took my two jovenes to the girl’s empowerment camp, their favorite charla’s were about sexual health. Noting this, we discussed starting an Escojo Mi Vida (I choose my life) group. This is an initiative of PCDR’s health sector that consists of a twelve week course on healthy decision-making for young people. Upon graduation from the course, the participants are provided with the materials and opportunity to continue the education to other young people in the current or surrounding communities. Multiplying effect, go sustainability! Well, I started one. I was scared. It is so outside of my box. I have never really taught, nevermind about sexual health, nevermind in Spanish and I was nervous. I worked on my first class for weeks. I got advice from an amazing teacher friend of mine because I wanted this to be fun, interactive and worthwhile. First day of class came, I was ready. Class was at 3pm. And, in classic DR fashion, at 2:30 it started pouring. Not just pouring, but torrential, impossible not to get soaked pouring. It was hard for ME (not a Dominican, Dominicans do NOT like the rain) to get to the structure and even inside it was raining. Well, as you may have guessed 3pm came and went and no one. At 4pm, I had eight of the fifteen girls. I decided to give the class anyways, even though the activities were not going to work as well with this size of a group. Cleaning up afterwards, that awful feeling of failure was creeping up…I wasn’t sure if they had enjoyed themselves and I was pretty sure they had not understood my point (the subject was Values). The next week, for the Self-Esteem charla, I tried my hardest to prepare another interactive class. I chalked up the low attendance to the rain and worked just as hard. I prepared an art project (I know, this is Jo talking, it was really hard) and hoped that at least my eight girls would show up. Show up they did…I ended up with almost twenty girls! Apparently, the week before had gone better than I thought and I was elated. YAY ME! Now, I am being realistic…they will probably not all graduate. Some will come once in a while, some will come every time. Some come to learn more about themselves and their bodies, some come for the snacks. But my biggest success from this? Sitting in my house the day after and having four girls, at different times, ask if they could join the class. Just another one of those little moments where I realize that it is all worth it. I believe that my newfound ability to accept failures and try, try again may be the most worthwhile thing I take out of the Peace Corps. The sayings never seemed to stick, but two years as a PCV in the DR just might… (the above pic is with two of my girls heading up the group, but at another one of my successes, taking them to Business Plan Competition)

October 10, 2008

“Ay, que Dios te bendiga!” “Oh, pero ella sabe! Ella sabe tanto por una muchachita!” Translation: The subject of these compliments is a God-blessed child that knows a lot. The subject of these compliments….Loma Verde’s Little Darling. If we had an annual Favorite Child Contest instead of a beauty pagent, this little dear would win. Everywhere she goes, these piropo’s (compliments) follow. Old men are constantly giving her mentas (mints.) Pao (the colmado guy) gives her lollipops every time she steps in the store without a mere peso. A different girl fixes her hair into perfect braids everyday. The Dona’s practically fight over who gets to feed her lunch. Her outfits are always picked from the best hand-me-downs. I have never seen her do a single chore, and that is saying a lot for the campo. And I swear, the child is bathed each and every time she falls into the dirt, because she is MUCH cleaner than I am. So what is this amazing muchacha’s name??? Drumroll please………Rachel!!!!!! This is Rachel. Phonetically: Ra like Rock, Ch like Cherry, El like Elephant. She is two years old. She is loud. She has quite the sassitude. She plays with ALL the kids, even the dirtiest ones. She loves my Kitten. She communicates better than some of the five year olds. She shares whatever she is eating with whoever is sitting near her. She walks with purpose, everywhere and nowhere. She laughs like she is being tickled to death. She never cries, even when she falls down. And I am sorry to say, even when her Mama passes away. Rachel is the daughter of the 19-year-old that died on Christmas Day last year. Some readers may remember this particular entry. Since then, her Abuela has had to take up a job in the Capital, leaving little Rachel even more orphaned than before. In some places of the world, this would be the beginning of the end for our little lass, but not here. The girl is everyone’s hija, everyone’s sister, everyone’s sobrina. She is constantly watched, cared for, fawned over, and lavished with attention. Rachel is probably the most-loved Dominican in Loma Verde (can’t put me in the mix, that just wouldn’t be fair) and luckily, one of the most deserving. Not just for her circumstances, but for her reciprocation of the joy and love that is poured into her every day. One example? At some point every day, without fail, Rachel strolls into my house, puts her hands on her hips, and beaming at me says “Hola Joa!” and laughs like there is no tomorrow as she bolts off to the colmado. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I believe she knows how much I enjoy it.

The last month and a half have been…you know what? There isn’t a word for it. I went to the States at the beginning of August for a family wedding and a desperately needed vacation. Apparently the Peace Corps Gods did not have a rest period in mind for me. My kitten (or mi hija, my daughter, as my site calls her) was lost for three days in a sugar cane field, I got so sick that I ended up in the ER two days after being back in the Bay Area, I couldn’t eat or drink for my first two weeks, and Peace Corps put me on Medical Hold giving me 45 days before I got Medically Separated…therefore prolonging my trip an extra four weeks. Yes, I was in the States for the last six weeks. I was in an emotional limbo; where I loved being with my friends and family, but was restless over letting down my community; where I was ecstatic to be home, but I couldn’t hold back the nagging feeling that my “home” right now is in the middle of a cacao forest; where I was tempted so badly just to go back to my happy and normal life, but knew that my fleeting moments of bliss and the overall fulfillment I have there would be missing. When I got cleared to go back, the exultation was equal with the dread. Excitement and relief mixed with the heartache and fear. I knew exactly what I was going back to, what the next year and some looked like and I was terrified. I thought I was going to hate saying goodbye again, hate stepping off that plane, and hate heading out to my site. But when it came, it just came. And it came with the most incredible support system. I said goodbye to the most amazing family and friends that have and continue to be there for me through it all, that love me even when thousands of miles away. I got off that plane (ok, well here I was pretty pissed, it’s hot) ecstatic to see my fellow volunteers and friends that I have shared the most incredible experience with, the friends that rallied to make sure I knew I had been missed and help me through the entire experience. I headed back to site, shaking with apprehension, only to have my community assuage my fears and treat me like one of their own: my moldy house had been scrubbed from head to toe, my mildewy clothes had been washed, my small, pesky subletters had been given the boot, and everyone from my babies to the elderly greeted me with a smile, a hug, and a “pues, tu eres flacita ahora!” And so it was done. I had ripped off the Band-Aid and it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as I had feared, thanks to my friends and family in the good old US of A, thanks to my friends and caretakers on this DiRty island, and most of all, thanks to my family of Loma Verde, who remind me every day that being part of their family is worth every moment I have given up in my happy and normal life. They deserve everything I can do for them and more.

July 20, 2008 Welp, it happened. I turned 25. I turned 25, in the campo, with no running water, hardly any electricity, dirty, poor, but with the love and birthday wishes from an entire community. If you had told me this is how I would be spending my 25th birthday a few years ago, I would have laughed. Today, I just smile and feel my heart warm. My community surprised me…twice. My first surprise was organized by Jamey, Amy, and Jared (my brother and his girlfriend have been staying with me and traveling this island for the last month, explanation to come). The three had gotten back to my campo the night before Camp Glow had finished, and when I arrived, there was a surprise party for Joa with all my muchachos. And I mean ALL my muchachos. They were screaming, waving their balloons, and jumping at me from all sides. Dressed in their best clothing, with their hair freshly braided, and smiles from ear to ear, I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday present from JamAmy and Jared. (Oh! Jared is Amy’s brother, but also my very DEAR friend that taught my kids how to make a fart noise and blame someone else…thanks Jar!) Once the mini-storm subsided, my guests and I enjoyed a wonderful night of beer, wine, dancing and yani’s. The next day, my site was throwing me a surprise party. There were two minor glitches in the planning of this surprise party. The first glitch was that I actually speak Spanish now, so understand the side conversations that take place around me. The second glitch, planning ahead is not exactly a cultural strength, so their attempt to give me a “palo” party struggled by not booking in time. Instead, they bought a CD with “palo” music and basically defined the saying, “it’s the thought that counts.” Ever since I went to my first “Palo” party, they have joked about throwing me one for my birthday. “Palo” is a form of music to drums that come from their African ancestry and I LOVE to dance (or rather, hop) around to it. It really was an experience you had to see to believe. There I was, being surprised complete with confetti and balloons, watching Amy and Jared win a dance contest, and blowing out the candles after everyone sang, “Happy Baby to you!” And all of this, in the main room of the house I lived in for three months…a room the size of some people’s dining room tables, with at least forty people crowded inside and another forty scattered outside. My community truly outdid themselves and they couldn’t have made me feel more loved.

July 18, 2008 Picture it…55 Dominican female teenagers, 25 Peace Corps Volunteers (2 being male), 20 tents, 4 nights, 16 charlas (lectures or talks), 1 swimming pool, and you get a summer camp never to be forgotten by anyone involved. Since February, I have been involved in putting together and participating in Camp Glow, a Peace Corps-led girl’s empowerment camp. The girls ranged from 10 to 20 years old, with the majority in high school and were from all over the country, including one girl from Haiti. The charla topics included sex-ed talks where the girls learned about their own bodies and also how to put on a condom correctly, life-planning and goal setting (this was mine, yeah, I know, ironic), sex and gender, diet and exercise, women around the world, and inspiring creativity among many others. The activities ranged from yoga to dream-catcher making to baking banana bread to swimming in the pool (which many girls didn’t understand at first and brought their soap to bathe.) Each volunteer that participated in putting together the camp, had the opportunity to bring two girls from their community. I brought La Beba and Solanyi and my choice could not have been better. Not only were they perfect angels, but they participated and learned everything they could. Furthermore, instead of straightening their hair for the week, they had specifically braided their hair for the event and I couldn’t have been prouder of their natural look. Honestly, I was swelling with pride all week. For my girls, for the girls that came out of their shells, for each girl I saw learn something new, for each unlikely friendship I saw blossom, and for each girl that had the courage to say something no one else had said. By the time the week was done, I was GLOWing with pride, love, and encouragement for our world. Not only for the incredible young girls, but for my fellow volunteers that made it possible for these girls to leave their campos and learn about themselves, their sex, and their world. It was truly an incredible sight. Thanks to all who made this possible!

July 12, 2008 I don’t have a lot of contact with the media world. But the other day I was introduced to the YouTube video “Where the Hell is Matt?” and haven’t been able to get it out of my head. So…for those of you that have not had the four-minute long pleasure, check it out. It warms some people, makes others solely laugh, and even others become so moved they come close to tears…you all can guess which of the three I am.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlfKdbWwruY

After you have watched the video… I needed to know what that beautiful song was saying, because apparently I am Type A. The words are from a poem written by Ranindandrath Tagore called “The Stream of Life” and here is the translation: Stream of Life The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day

runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth

in numberless blades of grass

and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers. It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth

and of death, in ebb and in flow. I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life.

And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.

Kinda perfect, huh? Guess some of us do get it right once in awhile.

Over a lifetime, one will have many best friends. The normal description of a best friend includes loyal, supportive, good listener, enjoyable to be around, and one that shares common interests. Per usual in my Peace Corps experience, I have thrown out all shreds of normalcy and come to accept the fact that my best friend these days doesn’t exactly fit that description. Tata is my best friend these days. Tata is two years old, she lives with her grandparents, and her twin sister died of parasites when they were babies. For this reason, she and her brother live with their grandparents…the DR’s form of Child Protective Services (family interference). She runs around barefoot, with whatever semblance of clothing her abuela was able to get on her that day. One of the dirtiest kids in the campo, she quite frequently has pussing abscises or wounds that I get to clean for her. She starts off shy, but warms up quickly, so much so that she was Leah’s permanent accessory when she visited. She doesn’t cry when she gets in trouble (gets hit) by her cousins and runs pitter-patter down the dirt path…most commonly to my house. She does cry when her dear abuela disciplines her. Her beautiful, big, brown eyes watch everything around her, especially those that she loves. When she smiles and laughs, which is rather rare, your heart warms and no matter how dirty she is, you want to freeze that moment and take a picture. One morning last week, I woke up and realized that I missed Tata. I had been gone during the days the entire week before, working in the office and attending meetings. I had not hung around my campo all day in over a week. I hadn’t passed by a house and heard Tata yell, “Joanna!” I hadn’t been making a pee only to look up to see Tata had walked into my bathroom. I hadn’t spent an entire evening sitting on my porch with Tata perched on my lap, taking breaks only when we would go play with the other kids. I hadn’t washed her face covered in mango juice and dirt. I hadn’t played with kitten, while Tata watched on wide-eyed and petrified. I hadn’t swept my house only to have Tata following behind me ripping up a candy wrapper and dropping it onto my floor. I missed my best friend. Tata may not be your typical best friend, but she loves me. What else could you ask for in a best friend?

May 30, 2008 I know, right? The world doesn’t stop when I pick up and leave? Everyone I love continues their life without me? They continue working, playing, falling ill, falling in love, getting promoted, getting married, finishing law school, finishing marathons, reaching college and reaching retirement without ME?!!?!?!?!?! I was just as shocked as I am sure all of you are to discover this the last few weeks. Two of my favorite friends came to visit at my eight-month mark and I was snapped back to my old reality. How wonderful my friends and family are, how incredible it was to be growing up together, how easy daily life was, and how that life carries on without me. At the same time, I was re-snapped into my current reality. I realized how dirty I am, how sick I can feel, how low maintenance I have sunk, and how this life drags as I fly through it. I also realized that the smellier I get and the better at Spanish I become, my friends get more mature and become all the more successful and impressive. Everyone at home is growing and changing as much as I am but in a slightly different atmosphere. I miss being part of that change and I miss growing with everyone. But when you leave the country for two-plus years, there is no pause button…unfortunately.

May 1, 2008 You know when you are hiking through mud, wading through rivers, and climbing up mountains with your Haviana flip flops on? And all you can think about is how you want to take off the slight protection between your skin and horse crap, rocks, insects, and who knows what types of parasites or worms? NO? Well, let me tell you…sliding off those flip flops is like ordering a beer on your lunch break. You know you shouldn’t do it, but it just tastes sooooo good!

April 28, 2008 We are sharing…this signifies we are spending time together, but in my opinion, it is the motto of Dominican life in the campo. We are sharing. In the campo, Dominicans share everything. They share the basics. They share food, water, homes, beds, clothes, utensils, and due to the aforementioned items…germs. They also share more than the essentials. Money, work, even children. Neighbors borrow money from neighbors. Neighbors complete a full day’s work for a neighbor. Neighbors mandar (send) neighbors children to complete chores, just taking advantage of the abundant resources. I have even witnessed men disciplining (some would call it beating) neighbor children. The interrelationship between neighbors is one of the most striking differences between daily life in the States and here in the campo. The entire village is linked. If not by blood, then by marriage (wait, no one is legally married, but they live together and have kids) or by the fact that they have endured this hard life together. Because this life is hard and without someone, or an entire village to share it with, it would debatably be impossible…I may not have “someone” to share it with, but I have my community. And every day I only wish to share more with them.

April 17, 2008 I am in love. I know this because when I have spare time, it is with whom you will find me. When I am away it is who I miss. When I am down, it is who takes away my tears. When I am scared, it is who protects me. When I am happy, it is with whom I share my joy. We cuddle, sleep, and spend the days together in my little house. I am in love and you can imagine the pain when today, I lost my love. Nowhere to be found, apparently left me. Once I resolved that my dear was nowhere to be found, I sat down and cried. Only to hear “Meow?” My love had been hidden from me all the time. Yes, a kitten. I am in love with a kitten. I am another fallen Peace Corps Volunteer to an unhealthy relationship with my pet. But what’s a girl to do? When everyone is surrounded by ten or twelve family members in their homes, I have my family. My little girl. I sound completely nuts, I know. But whatever, just another part of life in the Corps, right? Mi gatita es mi hijita. Se llama Stella, pero le llamo Kitten. Ella es mi pedacito de oro y estoy enamorada. Ya tu sabes.

April 15, 2008 For anyone who knows me intimately (get your mind out of the gutter guys) you know that I have a crazy brain. My brain is constantly going, no matter the circumstance. It plays tricks on me and can convince me of anything. But the biggest problem is that it never stops. Depending on the type of mindset I am in, this can be a benefit or a detriment to an overactive brain. Therefore lots of alone time is something I have always steered clear of. Enter: decision to be shipped off to an island in the middle of the Caribbean, live alone in a village, and continue on for two years. Oops. The last three days, my brain has brought me a lot of pain. I am embarrassed to be admitting this, but my brain has decided to dwell on the state of the world for three days. Straight. That is enough to make anyone lose it. My brain has come to the conclusion that our world is broken. My brain has decided that there is too much pain in the world. My brain has pondered whether or not it is fixable. My brain has touched on the terrifying thought that the more we develop, the closer we come to destroying Earth. My brain is ripping through my confidence in what I am doing. My brain has realized that this will never be enough. My heart is screaming the world is broken and I want to fix it. My soul is soothing that we can. My brain? Devious, malicious, and raucous. My heart? Bleeding. My soul? Buoyant.

April 13, 2008 I just finished a book that I have been waiting to read for almost a year now. And it could not have come at a more crucial time for me in my Peace Corps service. Many of you reading this have probably heard of Dr. Paul Farmer. He is a world-renowned medical anthropologist, a key player in international health policy-making, and above all, a Doctor in the Central Plateau of my neighboring country, Haiti. So many factors have contributed to the deplorable conditions in the DR’s neighbor. So much of its history is stained with blood and corruption, as with many of the world’s “developing” countries, including the DR. Many groups and people have made valiant efforts at curbing the despair that prevails in Haiti, while few people have devoted their lives to rectifying the wrongs of the past. He has spent the last 25 years of his life building the model for health care in impoverished countries, if not in all countries. His health care center sees thousands and thousands of patients in one of the most impoverished areas in the most impoverished country in the Americas…for free. Beyond health care, the center feeds the malnourished, constructs for the roofless, and purifies for the contaminated. AIDS, Tuberculosis, and other infectious diseases are rampant and Dr. Farmer’s system treats each case to the best of its ability, many times ignoring the high cost, what some would call “impractical.” The way this man has succeeded in continuing his fight in “the long defeat” is beyond inspiring. Our world needs more people like him. People willing to stand up for the forgotten, even though the easiest route would be to send a check and call it a day. Ok…and enough with the preachy book report. The point is, this book made me cry. Bawl would probably be the more fitting word. Just a few hundred miles from Haiti and I am moved to hysterics when reading this book. It wasn’t the description of houses with dirt floors, villages stranded in the mountains, nor the lack of electricity or potable water, we see that here, but it was the continuous voice in the back of my head...he is the real deal. The way this man has given up the comforts associated with his level of prestige makes me feel unworthy for all the praise I am given from friends and family for joining the Peace Corps. I finished the book and thought, this is where all the support I receive should be going, I don’t deserve this and my community is not in as dire need. Not the thoughts one wants to have while in the middle of the campo, seven months into their 27-month Peace Corps service. I spent a couple hours sitting alone in my house, thinking. And I got another good dose of realism. My experience brings my friends and family one step closer to the type of sacrifice someone like Farmer makes everyday. Although my sacrifice is on a MUCH smaller scale, it is something. My community may be considered lucky compared to parts of Haiti, but they are still in need and still deserve everything that I can do for them. It’s on a smaller scale, it’s a smaller mission, with smaller goals. But it’s something. And maybe one day, I will be able to use my experience and my support to make a difference like Dr. Farmer. I could never expect to achieve what he has, but a girl can dream, right?

While my parents were visiting, I experienced a bit of a rough spot. I miss my friends and family so much that seeing my parents brought all of those feelings forward, more strongly than ever before. But on the last day of "vacation" with my parents, when a Dominican man that lives in the States, saw pictures of my site and took my hand with tears on his cheeks and thanked me for helping his country, I get why I am here, for the hundredth time. And now, my mother's explanation of how she finally gets it... (Mom couldn't help herself from writing two blogs)

I Finally Get It Okay. I was a doubter. I was one of the Peace Corps moms that just couldn’t see how one person could make a difference. I believe in teams and in building momentum with large accomplishments. I struggled with the whole Peace Corps notion that it is a” personal journey” as well as an opportunity to complete a “notable project to improve a community through sustainable change made from within the community” rather than external sources. I challenged the idea that change needs to be made within the pace of the community undergoing the change. I was of the notion that it was better to diagnose, organize, change, and get out! That was me, and I was not afraid to share my opinions either. Since our visit, I have undergone a change of heart. I saw for my own eyes the Peace Corps Volunteers at work. I experienced their personal struggle with loneliness and cultural differences, frustration, self doubt, physical hardships, and the daily lack of emotional support. I heard them talk with excitement and sheer joy about their communities and the ideas they shared for the progress they might be able to support them in making. l watched them walk through their villages, adored by the onlookers as agents of change and hope. I heard them speak of future growth, concepts for local economic improvement, education, health, and business development. These volunteers are truly the best of the best. They are from Harvard, Yale, UCSB, UCLA, and from all over the country (we counted 15 states in Joanna’s group of 53 alone). They have journeyed to make a profound but slow internal impact on the lives of those that are commonly ignored. They are working with the forgotten ones. They are helping the small micro-communities of the world who have no great impact on the global economy and therefore have been left behind to fend for themselves. These Volunteers have devoted 27 months of their lives to bring a sense of hope and progress to those small towns and villages who are centuries behind the modern world we all have come to take for granted. These Volunteers take the “time” to understand the culture, become accepted as one of the community, and then as trusted community members set a role model for change and improvement. They use their education, training, and experience to create internal sustainable improvements for groups of villagers who may not have ever known possibilities existed. I finally get it! Each one of these Volunteers leaves an unforgettable impression on the people they serve whether it is a role model they set for a young woman who now knows they can become educated and do more than have babies and cook, or the young boy that learns he can read and go on adventures in his mind, or the mother who now sees she can earn money to help feed her family or send a child to college. Beyond these individual enlightenments, the Volunteer can actually implement the delivery of water, electricity or a community center to a town with none of these luxuries. I want to thank you PCV Volunteers for taking the time out of your lives to do the great work you are doing. In a time of fast paced results, pressure to grow up and be successful, and the drive to be economically ahead you have made the ultimate sacrifice to live the life of those so much less fortunate than yourselves and support them in improving their lives. Alright, I know. “You are getting more than you are giving.” I get that too. May you each fulfill your dreams in your communities and share them all with us so we can live vicariously through your achievements and the many life lessons you are so fortunate to learn.

I love my family. I love my brothers. I love my parents. I love my Dominican family. I love my Dominican community. And a couple weeks ago, these two worlds collided. Or rather, merged. My parents came to see me and I gave them a guest spot on my blog to mix things up and show a little bit about what they saw...enjoy!

Fue un Placer It was a pleasure to have been welcomed into the world of Joanna Carman, Peace Corps Volunteer. I had prepared for our visit for three weeks prior to departure. Tom and I had shopped for art supplies, bubbles, flash cards, books, marking pens, crayons, balls, nets, etc etc etc. We celebrated with Joanna’s friends here in the US and they all brought things for her village as well. We filmed a movie for her to keep with her throughout her long months of service. The day of our departure arrived and I was ready for an experience of a lifetime. I was terrified! For those of you who know me, I hate bugs, spiders, and rodents. I like running water and electricity. In fact, I have always preferred the Hilton to a camp ground. But there was one thing I knew and it became my mantra. “I would go through fire to see my daughter, to hold her tight, and to smell her beautiful scent again.” We arrived in Santo Domingo airport and the familiar sound of “MOM!” brought my eyes to Joanna’s calm and cool presence in a massive crowd of Dominicans waiting to greet their loved ones.. There she was, totally in charge of the airport scene, meeting us with a car and driver. I hugged her, smelled her, and cried to see her beautiful face again. God, I have missed her! We spent the next two days catching up, showering Joanna with food, water, gifts, and love, meeting Todd, another PCV and his Mom and Dad, walking the city end to end, seeing the American Embassy, touring the Peace Corps office, and drinking in every moment we spent with Jo. Our visit to the DR was more than we could have dreamed. It was more than great to see Joanna, explore a new city, relax at a beach resort, and visit the place where Joanna has settled down for the next two years. Our visit was life changing. I will never be the same person I was before I visited the Dominican. My path in the world is altered forever. And I am so grateful to my daughter for the moments she shared with us on our journey through her experience. Where do I start? Shall I begin with the fact that this beautiful capital city of Santo Domingo, once a hub for European travelers, has been left to decay and lacks the basic infrastructure a major city requires to maintain its streets, sidewalks, freeways, electrical conduits, and city buildings? Or shall I begin with the fact that the poverty of the people of the DR is contrasted with the over abundance at the all-inclusive resorts that line the beautiful coastline? I might start with the fact that the leftover food from the resorts is thrown away rather than distributed to the poor, or the average Dominican village dweller who most likely eats bread or oatmeal for dinner? I think I will begin with the Dominican people. We have so much to learn from them. Okay, it is a little annoying that we couldn’t get our movie to work in our hotel room and they didn’t seem to care, that we had to wait an interminable amount of time to order a drink at a bar, and that our hotel rooms were not totally ready nor clean. But putting all that aside, the way the Dominicans live presents so many lessons and guidelines to us. I want to concentrate on where and how Joanna lives. She has done such a great job of describing her personal journey and experience in this blog. I cannot even begin to touch her ability to describe the moments and times she has experienced. However, I can provide an outsiders view of Joanna’s new home and how it felt to be a part of it just for a moment. First let me begin by confirming that Joanna does “live in a mansion” and she is surrounded by many friends and family that adore her beyond belief. Joanna’s mansion consists of five rooms the total of which are the size of my bedroom with a front porch that welcomes the town to sit and visit. She has a kitchen table that sits four, a kitchen with a worktable Coleman two burner stove, a basin for washing dishes and a basin for rinsing dishes. Her back porch consists of a slab of concrete where she washes her dishes, most of the time with an audience of adorable children (actually most of Joanna’s life is followed and chronicled by a group of adoring children). JoJo’s bedroom is quite stylish with a bed adorned with a light blue mosquito net that drapes to four corners of her room, a lovely pine dresser, and an open air closet constructed of a wooden pole from the jungle. She has her own private bath consisting of a bucket self flushing toilet, an open air cold water bucket operated shower, a four foot tall container of fresh river water which can be used for bathing or hand washing and a sink that is ornamental rather than functional. The spare bedroom is not ready for guests yet but Joanna used her ingenuity to put up a tent for her bed while we were there. Don’t worry, all of you future visitors, Joanna has plans to remodel and is buying a guest bed, mosquito net and other upgrades are planned for the mansion over the coming months. Second, let me assure you that Joanna has assimilated into her village. At least a dozen different mothers stated to me that “Ella es como una hija para mi.” or “ Ella es una de nosotros.” Translation: She is like a daughter to me or she is one of us. The entire village is proud to have her living and working with them. How did we hear this from so many people? We were only there for two full days and yet a month of visiting was crammed into this time due to the manner in which the village lives with one another. The Dominicans have taken the “open door” policy to the extreme. Their lives are a constant ebb and flow of greeting one another, dropping by to talk or just sit, sharing a cup of coffee with a friend, visiting with each other’s children, serving one another a meal or snack from their humble tables, or just shouting to one another from the doorway a greeting of hello. One is never alone in this sweet village and there is no quiet time. From morning till night, there are roosters crowing, chickens clucking, boom boxes blaring, babies crying, children screaming, mothers coaxing, fathers hacking branches, people chatting, and families living together as close as a car length from one another. From the time we arrived, we were welcomed to Joanna’s hometown. We visited her host family, her project leader, and the home of the village teachers. They served us food, drink and local specialties such as chocolate bean soufflé, sweet beans, and fresh ground coffee with tons of sugar. I was overwhelmed with their generosity, their love for Joanna, their acceptance of us, and the care they gave to making sure we were included and taken care of during our stay. Here are the highlights of what we did in just two short days: · Attended a Resurrection ceremony where the Catholic congregation wrote down those things they wanted to change in their life on a piece of paper and then burned it in a bonfire lit by the church leader (also Joanna’s project leader Efraín.) Ate two delicious lunches of rice, beans, pasta salad, fresh beets and carrots, and beef/pork in a light sauce at Joanna’s host family’s home. Went on a long walk through the village to visit the pozo (well) and the river where they wash clothes and swim to cool off. Visited the cancha (sports court) where the women’s youth group played Volleyball with the new net and ball they earned through community service. Tom and Joanna played with them. Made hors d’ouerves and homemade Puttanesca for Joanna and her friends using peppercorns I bought in the DR, thinking they were capers. Still tasted good. Celebrated Easter with an authentic Italian Easter breakfast of hard boiled eggs, salami, cheese, and bread-- Easter basket and all. Went out to the local colmado that had a small open air nightclub for music and dancing of the merengue, bachata, and American Freestyle. Let me point out here that the Dominicans do not dance freestyle so when Joanna, her friend Cheryl and Tom started dancing, the entire nightclub rose with a roar, surrounding them and clapping as they danced alone on the dance floor. We left the DR with a sense of how fortunate we were to have been able to meet the women, men, and children of this town. Their priority is to enjoy each moment of each day and one another. They care for everyone as if they are part of their family and share the little they have as if they are the wealthiest people on earth. I pledged to learn Spanish for my next visit, as I had so much to say that couldn’t be said. I had to rely on my warm hugs, feeble greetings of mucho gusto and the most important message I could deliver to them: “Fue un placer.” And that it was . It was a pleasure to have been there. I cannot wait to return.

To all the amazing people in my life...I love you all. The support and love that was sent through my parents was incredible. More to come on the trip with my parents, but I just wanted to say thank you. I can not put into words how touched I was.

March 18, 2008 As a little kid, I once dressed up my little brother as a girl, complete with a dress, headband, and jewelry. Besides the memory of how beautiful a little girl he could have been (he is going to kill me, but if you know my brother, he is almost as cute as I am…almost) I distinctly remember wishing he had been a Christina. Obviously, I grew up and realized little girls are a pain in the ass, not to mention, he grew to be one of the coolest, most lovable people I have ever met, ever. But that memory remains. At one point in my childhood, I wanted a little sister. I wanted a six-year-old to follow me around, hug me, and watch my every move with astonishment and wonder. Enters Clariestel, into The Life of Jo. Clariestel lived with me at my host family. An adorable child, she lives with her grandparents (my host parents) and her 25-year-old mother works in the Capital during the week, to arrive home on the weekends, si Dios quiere. She whines and cries. She laughs, giggles and plays. She throws tantrums worthy of an Oscar. She runs to see me. She hugs me. She walks around holding my hand. She memorizes my parents’ names. She drives me crazy. She listens to my orders to go to school. She helps me with chores. She teaches me Spanish. She learns to read from me. She looks up to me. She boasts to her friends about me. She loves me. She is my six-year-old little sister…and I love her.

March 10, 2008 I am writing this because I was woken up from a nap by a cock fight going on directly in front of my house…ah, Testosterone. I was taking a nap because I went out dancing last night where the girls were playing a game to see who would get asked to dance the most. (Not smart to play against the gringa. I won.) Ah, the Dominican Republic. I went out dancing to blow off some steam because yesterday, I was at a taller (workshop) for Agricultura Organico y Conservacion de Suelos that my organization was co-sponsoring in my campo. In the middle, for a dinamica, in order to ‘get everyone’s blood pumping’ I was called up in front of the 35 men or so to play 20 questions about….the details of my love life. Ah, dirty old men. The term dirty old men takes on a whole new meaning here…they even get their jollies off asking if you are testing out all of their sons before you pick which one you will take as your novio. The subject of Joa’s love life is such a hot topic in this campo because the Dominicans can not understand how a young woman would not be aspiring to become barefoot and pregnant, staying warm every night with a Dominican male. Ah, Machismo. Machismo, at times inspires inane flattery, at times inspires blatant disrespect. This machista society has created a culture that coddles its men, while forcing absurd amounts of strength from its women. Fidelity is not demanded, the women are expected to accept that men can not control their forces of passion. Respect is relative, women tolerate hisses, kissing noises, crude comments, and hollers as they walk down the street. Equality is debatable, many women are the sole bread-winners, heads of the household, and homemakers while men drink, gamble, and socialize. Machismo is the bane of my existence here in the DR and results in my embarrassment, humiliation, and lack of self-confidence. Whether men laugh at me when I try and teach them something or boys touch me as I pass them on the street, the most defining emotion during these experiences is anger. A sweeping, uncontrollable anger that releases my temper. For better or for worse, I show these men and boys something they are not used to viewing: a girl that fights back against their cultural norms.

Birthday and Anniversary Month to my Aunt and Uncle!!

(Thought you guys would get a kick out of this.)This is the boy that works in my local colmado...take a closer look at his t-shirt...

Yup! That is a Freestyle shirt! Apparently, he was at a PeMaBoCa Christmas cerca 1990!

March 9, 2008 I started a Volleyball team. Have I mentioned that? About 25 young women, from ages 13 to 23, are now part of a volleyball team. We play against other campos in the area, when they actually show up. And I said “they show up” because this Dirty Hill has a Cancha (a sports court.) The owner of a large finca (farm) in our town laid down some cement, built some cement basketball posts (we don’t have baskets or backboards yet), and constructed cement bleachers. Basically, it’s a lot of cement, but who cares! We have a cancha. And now we have a girl’s volleyball team. When I first noticed girls playing with a half-inflated volleyball over a clothesline, I chuckled at the newest slash to my expectations of the DR. But soon, I realized that this was not just a random occurrence. They LOVE volleyball! And my girls are good too! Yesterday, I spent the entire day down at the cancha, watching a torneo (tournament.) Ok, can’t exactly call it a tournament because only two of the four expected teams decided to show, but we won! Rephrase: we beat the only other team! The other team is from a neighboring town and they came complete with uniforms and have been playing together for a significant amount of time. My girls all made an effort to wear a white shirt, some bottoms that resembled spandex, and a pair of flats. We even managed to not have a single girl show up in rollers. And we won! The excitement that erupted from these girls when they realized that they had won was contagious. I caught myself jumping up and down on a cement bleacher while all the young men stared at me like I was a lunatic. (It’s debatable.) And so I now have a youth group. First Potential Project: implemented. On Wednesday, we will vote on a Directiva to take over the leadership role that I have assumed until now. How did I do it? I used the volleyball team to create a youth group under the premise that we would work on community projects and in return, receive donations in the form of sports equipment. Brilliant bribery if you ask me. Now for the hard part…what do I offer them to stop having babies before they graduate high school?

March 8, 2008 Moving into my own house created quite a ruckus amongst the people of my village. The idea of a young woman (Not to mention extranjera!) living alone was preposterous. “Won’t you be scared?” “Here take my little girl to sleep with you…” “You will sleep alone, in that house?” I am confronted with this attitude every day. Just this morning, when I went to get my breakfast fixings in the colmado, Paolo asked me if I was tired, why yes, I was, didn’t sleep well last night. “Oh, yes, you were scared, right?” No, no…but what exactly does he think I have to be scared of? I live in the middle of the community, with neighbors within ten feet of me on each side. Any fear of rats, spiders, or cockroaches are a thing of the past. My biggest fear is something that no one in my village can seem to understand… Loneliness: a very serious ailment that can come in waves. One can go for weeks without a single symptom. Symptoms include chest pains, shortness of breath, uncontrollable tears, restlessness, and fatigue. Causes can vary for each individual; examples include the name of a city, news from home, a random memory of happiness, lack of communication, or the sudden, unknown desire to be around the family and friends that love you unconditionally (even if you can’t bring them potable water.) Loneliness is one of the worries that every aspiring Peace Corps Volunteer has and for me, it was my biggest challenge. But I don’t feel lonely here, ever. Even as I sit here with my doors and windows closed, I hear my community bustling around me. Children are constantly playing on my porch, saludos are constantly being offered, and people are constantly coming by to sit with me. I am not lonely in my community, but there are times, mostly at night, that I feel utterly alone. At the end of the day, I am finally alone with my thoughts and I think of home. The laughter I am not starting, the tears I am not wiping, the celebrations I am not sharing, but mostly the love I am not giving. I miss the people I love, and I regret not being there for them in their times of sadness, their times of joy, and their times of triumph. I miss the completeness I felt in my life before I left…I miss not feeling so alone, so solita.