The Forearm Shake

This is Doña Maria. I took her picture on May this year. I met her when I walked by her house in the hamlet of Guázuma, in La Sierra, part of the Central Mountain Range of Dominican Republic. She was standing at her door, looking out, as if looking or waiting for someone. She had such a beautiful and interesting face. I said hello and she asked me in.

We sat on rocking chairs in her modest house and talked for a few minutes. I asked her about her family. She told me she had lived on her own in that house for a long time. She told me that she'd had 12 children, 10 of whom she lost before their second birthday. She told me one of those two she managed to raise to adulthood, the boy, had recently moved in back with her after his divorce, bringing with him a daughter. She told also about me about her health.

Although Doña Maria spoke shortly about her life, on her face you could read a long biography written in wrinkles and shades of tan and brown and pink. A living and moving roadmap to a hard and interesting life that told me a lot more of what she had lived through than her words did. But she didn't seem bitter or despondent; she smiled frequently and actually appeared content, at peace.

After taking her picture and sitting with her for a few more minutes, we said goodbye with a typical Dominican forearm shake. Since I haven't experienced this type of greeting in any other culture, I'm going to go out on a limb and say this is a purely Dominican embrace until I'm proven wrong.

This is how it goes: instead of holding hands and shaking, you hold each others forearms and shake, only not with the same side, as in a bro shake, but using opposing forearms. It's more intimate than a handshake but less so than a hug; an automatic sign of inclusion and acceptance.

Without words it says: "I like you and I will be happy when I see you again, so please come back soon." In our campos it is a very common interaction, and if you happen to be introduced to a person in the Sierra and you don't get one upon parting or at re-encounter, you have seriously impaired interpersonal skills, so... revísate! I happen to get them every time, which I don't think is a testament to my affability and charm but to the openness and trusting nature of the Dominican campesino, particularly the Serrano.

I haven't gone back to see Doña Maria but I plan to, and I'm sure that when I do, if she is still there, and if she remembers me, I'll get my forearm shake.

By the way, that day I met her was Mother's Day and Doña Maria was alone.

ALGO DE HISTORIA

Mi abuela, que nunca hizo lo que le decían y siempre hizo lo que le prohibían, me contó (en secreto, porque papá nuca quiso que me hablara de la historia de la familia) que nací con comadrona, en la misma casa en que vivíamos, en el mismo cuarto en que me concibieron, en la misma cama en que murió mi madre, y media hora antes que mi hermano, que parece que quería quedarse adentro.

Como mis padres no habían planeado más que para un bebé mi hermano se quedo sin nombre. Emilio, el nombre que habían reservado, me tocó a mí que nací primero. A él, por razones obvias, le pusieron Segundo. Segundo y yo tenemos la misma cara y los mismos genes, pero no la misma fecha de nacimiento, ni el mismo apellido, ni la misma familia. Su historia no la conozco.

Mamá se enfermó después de dar a luz y estuvo al borde de la muerte por largo tiempo. Dos meses mas tarde, cruzó esa borde y nos quedamos solos los tres. Porque su familia no era de Santiago papá se quedó sin soporte y sin ayuda,  y decidió dar a mi hermano a criar a una pareja del barrio que no tenía hijos. Llevando a un solo bebé el mercado podía trabajar; con dos bocas que alimentar y dos culos que limpiar en medio de la bulla y el afán de una carnicería, trabajar era más que imposible. A mi me tocó el ruido del mercado, a mi hermano el silencio de una casa ajena. Un día papá lo fue a visitar y no lo encontró. Los vecinos se mudaron sin decir a donde y nunca volvimos a verlos ni a ellos, ni a mi hermano. A lo mejor vive en Nueva York. Quien sabe.

Mi abuela, Encarnación, que vivía en El Memiso, en Azua, enviudó a los pocos días de enviudar nosotros. Al enterarse de lo que había pasado con Segundo se fue a vivir a Santiago con papá, su único hijo. Vivimos juntos en Santiago, en "El Maco", por 6 años, tres generaciones de hijos únicos, ellos dos por nacimiento, yo por desaparición.

Recuerdo que una noche hubo un incendio en una de las casas vecinas y papá nos sacó casi en cueros a esperar que los bomberos apagaran el fuego. Pasamos casi toda la noche en el parque Ercilia Pepín, que está al frente de lo que ahora es el Hospital Cabral y Baez. Volvimos a entrar a la casa casi de madrugada. El parque se ve así ahora:

Era muy diferente entonces. Yo creo que era más bonito. Tenía una de esas televisiones públicas que ponían en unas casitas de concreto con puerta de rejas de hierro. Todas las tardes un empleado del ayuntamiento quitaba el candado y abría las rejas para que el vecindario fuera a ver televisión por varias horas. Todos juntos veían el mismo programa, por el mismo bati-canal y a la misma bati-hora. ¡Traten de hacer eso ahora!

Esta es la casa en que vivíamos, o al menos es la condición en que está la casa ahora. Visité Santiago recientemente y fui a ver quien vive allí ahora, pero no está ocupada ni parece estar habitable.

Abuela murió de una enfermedad que le dicen Feresía. Murió el día de su cumpleaños, como si hubiera tenido la misma fecha de expedición que de vencimiento.

Mi historia es interesante (ya habrá tiempo de contarles más), pero no creo que es triste. Me considero un hombre afortunado. Vivo en un lugar precioso (check out this link http://www.tourismsaskatoon.com/Gallery), estoy saludable, me mantengo de lo que me gusta (la fotografía), he conocido el amor (a pesar de que ahora me elude), tengo un gato que me hace compañía y cosquillas en las plantas de los pies con su bigote en la mañana, y la vecina del tercer piso del edificio de al frente me da beneficios ocasionalmente cuando su marinero esta en alta mar (if you catch my drift)

More later.

PS/PD: Some of the above details have been changed to protect the privacy of the innocent... and the guilty.

CYRUS IN ACTION (inaction?)

This is what Cyrus looks like 90% of the time. I took this picture in color but Cyrus insisted I convert it to B&W. He thinks it makes him look "cool and badass" (his words). By the way, that used to be my reclining chair he's lying on. Now it's his.

MANIFESTO

This is what's going to happen.

I'm starting here (probably out of insecurity) because there are less people around than on Facebook.
Sometimes it will be in English, sometimes in Spanish, sometimes in both. It will depend in what language I happen to be thinking at the time. Those that speak no Dominican might need to find or make a friend who speaks Spanish, which is the next best thing. Aquellos que solo lean español, que se la busquen con un "mataburros" o se inscriban en un curso de inglés por correspondencia de Hemphill School (*)

I intend to post regularly. Note that I didn't say "frequently," and that I did say "intend."

There will be no common thread, no set style, no unique topic, no steady point of view, no defined philosophical-political-ideological-national-ethnic-racial-religious affiliation, or particular school of thought. Sometimes, or most times, I may not even make any sense. Welcome to my head!
Anybody is welcome to post adulatory, critical, constructive or destructive comments in response, I will be welcome to read them all and ignore them at will. This is, after all, MY blog.

Finally, I promise to keep this as interesting and as least-self-involved as possible (keep in mind this IS a personal blog, and that makes this promise sort of hollow) so please let me know when it's not so that I can stop before becoming more annoying that I am naturally inclined to be.

Till next time!

(*) Para aquellos que no son de edad suficiente para saber lo que eso, es el equivalent a inscribirse en "Ingles Sin Barreras", solo que las clases en vez de venir todas juntas en DVD, venían una a una, mensualmente, en folletos por correo (el correo original, con carteros, no el electrónico). Para los que sí son de edad, sepan que Hemphill Schools todavía existe. Check it out: http://www.hemphillschools.com/index.html

I'LL GIVE IT A TRY

I've decided to take a stab at social media.

The pressure to jump into it has been tremendous. Every time I open one of my email addresses I find friend requests, notices of some photos of me somebody has tagged somewhere, or comments some others have made on those photos. I talk to friends or family and EVERYONE talks about what they wrote, read or saw at someone's wall, site or blog.

What has kept me from jumping into the pool and joining everybody else has been a reluctance to getting caught in the web of connections that social media creates. Once you connect there's no way to hide, except by ignoring every message, request, ping or comment and becoming then an antisocial outcast. At least before you're found people may think you're web-savvy, to busy to spend time online or that they don't have your updated contact info. Once you show up and then stop corresponding those possibilities disappear: you have confirmed that your an a**hole. For some strange reason people take it personally when you ignore them.

Maybe I just have a distorted sense of my own importance: thinking that there will be thousands of people online waiting for me to show up so that they can finally flock to me and faithfully follow my fanciful posts, or believing that there will be throngs of disaffected webizens disappointed by my distant demeanor and my insensitive insistence on ignoring their inquiries once they've had a taste of me and my wit.

Or maybe it's not distorted, I mean... the sense of my own importance ;-)

Whatever the case may be, I've decided to man-up, grow a pair, suck it up, stop been a kitty and jump in the pool.

For now.