6/22/12 How do you spell a name that sounds like Zayuh?

          The feeding center was hot and full of people. I had gone in at the back and leaned against one of the walls, but there just wasn’t enough space. I thought the team should be in there rather than me, so I slipped back outside. I leaned against a post and listened to the chaos of children yelling for a different sized plate, metal forks thudding against plastic plates and cups of juice being set hurriedly on the tables. I could see the old basketball court next to the church, with its hoop leaning dangerously forward. The netting was torn up from kids grabbing and holding on just to prove that they could. Our two ministry vans were parked on the gravel road in front of this little church. This little church that was feeding at least fifty kids one hot meal six days a week.

            An old woman was passing along the road when she stopped and tried to talk with me. She said something was bad and showed me two bundles of straw in her potato sack. She pointed to the road and gave me a sad and knowing look. She figured I had to know what was bad about her straw and the road. I didn’t. But I did know that she was missing her front teeth and that her hair was white with grey streaks. I knew she was much smaller than me, and her eyes were a bit muddy. Amy, a member of the team that I was working with, attempted an hola. The old woman began to share her woes with Amy who knew about two words of Spanish, hola and gracias. The woman asked for money so that she could eat. I translated for Amy who told her she didn’t have anything. I translated for the woman. She gave me the same sad look with her muddy eyes as she did before. It was a look that said, oh well, what can you do? She moved around to the window of the building next to the church where the women were preparing the food for the children. I didn’t see her again.

            I never know what to do in those situations. I feel bad with whatever I do. Should I just give all that I have? Or is it better to rely on the church in the area to take care of her? Would it be better to give to a church that would hopefully be able to invest more in her life? Or would the 100 pesos I could give mean anything at all? At least it could mean some beans and rice.

          The children started to thin out of the small one room building. I slipped into the back to see if I could be any help. In the very last row of the faded green benches sat two older girls. They were in the very corner near the slotted windows. They looked out of place. I lean over and say hello. They shyly smile at me.
            “How are you?” I ask in Spanish.
            “I’m nervous,” said the bigger girl. She was sitting the closest to where I was standing. She had dark skin and big eyes.
            “Why are you nervous?”
            “There are a lot of people.”
            “And a lot of them are men,” I say and wink at them. They laugh which is an invitation for me to come closer. I move around the back of the bench and stand near the window. Now, I am facing them instead of talking over their shoulders. I only leaned against the window for a few seconds before the girls scooted over to make room for me. I sat down, and we smiled at each other not quite knowing what to say next.
            “What’s your name?” the older girl asked me.
            “Leah. And what’s yours?” the older girl told me her name was Zayuh (at least that’s how it sounded to me. It was just like my name except with a z). The girl who sat next to her, who I was told was her 14 year old sister, said her name was Jennifer. Zayuh was 16.
            “Are you a Christian?” Zayuh asked me.
            “I am. Are you?”
            She nodded.
            I was surprised that she asked me, but I carried on the conversation, “Jesus is my best friend, and I can talk to him.”
            “For me too! When I’m sad or need a friend.” We grinned at each other because we had found common ground.

            The feeding center began to slowly empty, and when Zayuh and Jennifer were done eating, we went to stand outside the church exactly where I had first talked with the old woman. Jennifer disappeared, maybe to her home or a friend’s, and Zayuh and I were left alone.
            “Do you have a lot of friends?” she asked me.
            “I do.  A lot of my friends are in the United States, but I have friend here too. Do you?”
            She cast her eyes down and answered me in her smooth voice, “No, no the other girls don’t want to be my friend because my skin is too dark.”
            I was at a loss. Skin color is an issue that in the States we sometimes like to pretend doesn’t exist anymore. But here it was, again, in the Dominican Republic. Here it was, again, tearing this girl up and leaving her empty.
            I put my hand on her, “I think you’re beautiful,” and I meant it. My throat tightened up as I said, “And Jesus does too.”

            She told me I was nice, and the tone lightened. We talked about boys. We agreed that we want our man to be honest, and he needs to love Jesus. I said it would be nice if he were guapisimo. She laughed.
            She looked out at the group from Revolution church playing with the kids of her neighborhood. The high school boys were running with kids on their shoulders, and a few were being chased by a pack of niños.
            “I like American boys,” she admitted shyly.
            I laughed, “That’s perfect! I don’t like American boys, so we can switch.”

            “OK! Time to go!” Kerlyn shouted to the group. Team members began to hug their new kids goodbye, and load into the vans. Zayuh and I looked at each other.
            “Do you have a cellphone?” she asked me. But it was more than that. What she was really asking was, Is it possible for us to stay friends? Can you prove to me that I am loveable regardless of my skin color? Can you show me that there is tangible hope rather than only relying on my whispered prayers?
            “I do, but it’s for the United States. I can’t use it here.”
            And Zayuh gave me the same smile that the old woman had.

6/12/12 Departure

           4:30 AM and the alarm’s set for 6:25. I wake up with the remnant of a nightmare stuck in my head. In the dream, it was 7:02, and we were supposed to be at the church at 7:00 AM sharp. “Don’t be late,” they had said, “You’ll see our tail lights.” What had I forgotten? I rushed around the house frantically trying to remember.
“Lydia, put the book down and pack!” my mom shouted as she went in the garage to load the van. Talitha, my 15-year-old sister was preparing to drive us to the Dominican Republic. Terror gripped me. I fed my cat bacon strips out of a bag.
“How will they survive without us?” my dad sobbed.

But I rub the dream out of my eyes and think, What am I forgetting? I guess, I’ll worry about it when my alarm goes off. I peek at Lydia who’s asleep on my floor. She’s been there practically every night since I’ve come home from Huntington. This will be her last night for  a while because we really are supposed to be at the church at 7:00 AM sharp, and my dad, Talitha, and I really are going to the Dominican Republic. However, Talitha isn’t going to drive us there.

4:40. I still haven’t been able to fall back asleep. I’ve woken myself up thinking about what I’m forgetting and what the next six weeks have in store. I snap a photo of Lydia on the floor with this blog in mind. Then I take another. And another.

                                                                               4:41

                                                                    5:10

                                                                 5:54

                                                                  6:05

        

                                                               6:06  

 
             

            Dad has coffee ready downstairs, but I make a soy caramel latte, and plan to take the coffee anyway in a to-go mug. We leave the house at 7:02, but it only takes about thirty seconds to drive to my church.
            “You have deodorant?” Talitha asks.
            “Yes.”
            “You have soap?”
            “Yes.”
            “You have underwear? Swim suit? Sun screen? Bug spray? Socks?”
            “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”
            “Well, maybe you aren’t forgetting anything, Leah.” Talitha rolls her eyes at me. “Stop worrying about it.”
I run through my mental check list another ten times before I admit I won’t be able to remember what I’ve forgotten.

~~~

“Isn’t that an oxymoron? Because you can’t remember something you’ve forgotten,”  my Dad laughs at me in the O’Hare airport.
            “Well, I guess it’s too late anyway.” I take another bite of my cheeseburger from McDonalds. Surprisingly, it was only $1.35. I would expect an airport cheeseburger to cost me (well, my dad) much more. Kathy, another intern arrives, and I introduce her to the team from my church. They are flying down for a one week mission trip, but I will be staying as an intern for another five weeks after they leave. I will be spending six weeks filling water buckets, playing with kids, being whistled at by teenage boys, and having an ample amount of time to realize what I’ve forgotten.

The Miami airport feels just the same as O’Hare did. This time I choose Chinese noodles for my last go at bad, greasy American food. It’s not real Chinese food, so it counts. It sits thick in my stomach as the plane takes off. Talitha is sitting across the aisle from me, and two boys a bit younger than me are to my right. I look to the window to catch a glimpse of the ocean, but the boy’s tan arm is blocking my view. I try chatting with Talitha, but the plane roars in my ears. We land and turn in papers and pay our ten dollar entry fee to customs. We meet with the Gards. Derek and Lydia used to go to our church, but now they work with G.O. Ministries full time. Derek gives a booming I-L-L, and the 16 members of my church shout I-N-I. Go Illini.

We load our luggage and squeeze into two 12-passenger vans. I sit directly behind the driver of the smaller white van, and my dad and sister are somewhere in the rows behind me. It’s already dark outside, and I gaze out the window at life in the city surrounding me.

              Behind me, someone is explaining to the new comers about Dominican driving, “It’s not like in America. Stop signs and speed limits are just a suggestion. It’s crazy!”
            “Are you scared?” someone asks the first timers.
            “A little,” they say because it wouldn’t be right to just say no.
In front of me, a different conversation is taking place. A Spanish teacher has come along on the trip and she is chatting away with the young driver asking him all sorts of questions in Spanish. I understand most of their conversation, but the words still dance together like some kind of music.
            “Did you just see that motorcycle?” someone shouts behind me, “There was a dad, a mom, and two kids!”
            “Wow! Look at that pile of trash! It’s just so sad.”
            “Did you see how close we passed that guy?”
I roll my eyes and resume eavesdropping. The Spanish sounds beautiful to me; a life different from mine.

            We are waiting behind a truck to make a left turn. He goes and Kerlyn, our driver whose name I learned by eavesdropping, follows him. The truck eases into the next lane but stamps on the brake as a motorcycle whips down the road. Kerlyn slams on the brake as well so that we jolt forward in our seats.
            “Ooops,” a booming voice echoes from the back. He is maybe fifty years old and is used to America’s drivers.
            “Well now I’m a little bit scared,” says a forty-something-year-old woman. The Spanish coming from the front, full of bright words and orange sounds, ceases. Now, it is only American voices I hear commenting on the crazy driving.

            There are signs for Hato del Yaque. We are close to what will be home for the next week. The houses are close together, and the houses are small. The roads are bad, and the bumps are noteworthy. The adults sit outside their houses, and the children laugh with each other. We pass a boy of about thirteen who hails a friend still further up the road. He runs to him, and his flying feet keep him even with the van. His eyes are dark and sparkle with the crude joke he plans to whisper to his friend. I smile as I watch him in his excitement.
            “Oh! Is he trying to wash our windows?” a girl behind me asks. I want to scream, No, you idiot, he’s just having a good time with his friend. But I figure that’s not the best way to start my time as an intern. I shouldn’t have been frustrated. These people sitting behind me aren’t bad. In fact, the driving in the Dominican Republic is terrible. It’s dangerous. And people take risks on a daily basis that would get you ticketed in a heartbeat in America. Why was I angry with them? Did I think I was so much more culturally sensitive? Did I think I knew more than they did? Because I didn’t. I don’t.

            But I felt they were forgetting that this way of life was a valid one. That they were forgetting that just because the roads weren’t as clean, these people were somehow of less  worth than Americans. That they were forgetting the reason they are here is to show the love of Jesus Christ. And that they are forgetting that that love is the same whether you believe it’s ok to hold a baby on the back of a motorcycle or not.

But what am I forgetting?