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It is time for me to explain fully the title of this blog. It is time for all of this to come out.

I grew up slightly overweight. I was always self-concious about who I was. I doubted everyone, not knowing if people really were accepting me as a friend. Never feeling truly involved or connected, I would rarely make attempts to fit in, despite "fitting in" quite well. An opportunity arose for me to take a week of my summer vacation and head out with my Boy Scout Troop to a summer camp. Nervous as anything, I took the chance to step away from the comfort of my family and home and spend time with peers I felt so foreign to.

The week went well. I was fitting in and even bonding with some of the older boys in the troop. There was one older boy, however, whom I idolized. He was the definition of what I wanted to be when I aged 5 or 6 more years. Strong, confident, and a leader, I took in his presence each and every time. This is completely normal. Every young boy finds older young men to idolize, to want to become. Rarely does the older boy recognize the vulnerability of the younger and take advantage of it. In most cases, the elder takes in the child and "mentors" him in such an informal and impactful way that therapists and fathers only wish they could do.

I was not a part of the "most cases". It occurred towards the end of the week. A couple of us boys were hanging back at the camp site, not having anything to do for an hour or two. Some were sitting lazily by the fire pit planning the next shenanigans for the night while others ventured off in hopes of encountering something exciting near the campsite. I had joined a few peers around a camp table, playing various card games learned throughout the week. The youth leader that I looked up to so much had joined us, much to my excitement. Perhaps he had finally been impressed by me. The inner boy in me was hopeful that I would finally be accepted by him. After all, the week was already going well, many of my peers had appeared to accept me, why couldn't the leader of us all, the cool slick 17 year old? I started my attempt to gain his attention and thus approval by making a sarcastic comment to him. Something I have learned through this all is that sarcasm is the best way to subtly protect one's own lack of confidence. At any rate, once the comment was out there in open air I could only wait to see if he would respond. He did, much to my delight. Unfortunately, I was naive and didn't realize that was merely his personality, not his acceptance of me.. The jabs continued flying just as fast as cards were laid down and taken up. The game of Spit was getting heated, and my excitement in beginning to successfully win over his approval was only growing. And then the threat was sent out, a warning that I chose not to head.

"If you continue Grant I am going to have to tie you to a tree."

Most certainly not a threat. By no means, it couldn't have been. I didn't see it as one, nor to this day do I believe it was necessarily meant to be a threat intended to hurt.

I took the challenge. Clearly he was trying to see how far I would go to win his approval. I had fought for it for a few years now, I wasn't going to back down. Moreover, all eyes at the table were on me. Suddenly, the first time ever, I was the center of attention amongst a group of boys who constantly rowed back and forth vying for the very spot I was in. I couldn't back down now, not when I had gotten this far. So the sarcasm and jokes continued. The remainder of the event is kind of a blur to me. The tape came out, the boys rallied up, and then the tree was right there in my face. It was harmless at first, but then fear washed over. The poking started, then the crude sexual jokes were tossed around. This wasn't a game, this was torture of one's mind, dignity, and confidence. Once the stick was brought in, my mind just shut it out. And I was damned proud of myself, I never cried once in front of any of the boys.

I tell you this story not to bring judgement on my tormentors. But this event defines what being poor and meek means. The anger that boiled up as I remembered this event three years ago. The humility I have had to learn to try and forgive each and every boy. The weakness I showed not only then, but also now to God to begin healing.

For 6 years I held this inside, telling no one. I became a zombie in many respects, holding back feelings and lacking any response to emotions one had towards me. I was a wallflower amidst anger, regret, and sadness. But when it all boiled to the surface, once I began to let the pain out and actually feel it. Once I finally relived what had happened to me, I started to feel free. And I opened up. Today I am a wild thing, sometimes too wild. From traveling all around the world, to meeting new people, to drinking a little toooo much ;) I have become the open and honest man I am because of my release. I have a passion for the poor and meek of this world, either in spirit or physical circumstances, because I have been poor and meek myself. I have felt the outside pressures of this world crashing in on me in relentless waves that I felt as though I would drown. I do not know what it is like to wonder if I will have enough money to feed myself next week. I do not know what it is to hope that one $50 loan will rescue me from my poverty. And I do not know what it is like to grow up not knowing who my parents were having both been taken by AIDS. But I do know what pain is. Many know more about it than I, but I have begun to understand it in a way few do. And I can thank this story for that.

This is a blog about pain. This is a blog about suffering. This is a blog about anger. But this is also a blog  about

hope
forgiveness
happiness
love
trust

This blog is real, as real as that raw hard emotion you feel right now, be it anger or happiness. Be it loneliness or security. Micro finance, development, poverty, traveling, this world. It all can be summed up in this story. All have stories like this. Triumph over this story, and you have triumphed over the world. I don't want to paint such a pretty picture, this story has come at a cost, a cost I would do anything to trade away. But it is a cost I have taken, and here I am standing strong. Being poor and meek runs through my blood, just as it does with those of the wealthy and those of the shadows. So take this story with heed. Heed that being poor and meek is not just an action, but a lifestyle, one we all must live.

Haven't done this in a while...

So I apologize for not blogging in a good while... then again few people actually read this blog so perhaps it is more of just an apology to myself. Six days and I am back stateside after my longest time abroad ever. I do not regret this decision. Nor do I want it to end. I am going to miss this place: the culture, the people, the food, the land, and even the language. But perhaps what I am going to miss the most is the experience itself. You might think I am crazy as I just listed about everything I have experienced in the preceding sentence. No, what I mean is that try as hard as you all may, you will never be interested in what happened to me down here. That is not commentary on anyone's character. No, the fact is that none of you were here to see what I saw or live through what I lived through. You will show interest, but it will be minimal, limited by the distance between us for the past twelve weeks.

I am going to miss this place. The fact is that this summer confirmed something in me I have been trying to deny for years. I used to joke with others that I would be poor the rest of my life, having always chosen to serve others and work with the poor. Granted I haven't really stood out in terms of my service but I seem to always choose the action that leads me to working and serving the poor. Deep down however, as I joked, I secretly worried that the joke had truth to it. Well my time down here has answered that burning question.

For some odd reason, I am captivated by the poor. It isn't that my heart aches for the starving or the meek. On the contrary, I have no emotion other than the desire to teach them how to alleviate that poverty. And that is just it. That emotion brings up a desire and passion much stronger than sadness or sorrow. I am destined to work with the poor. It honestly pains me and scares me to death to say that. But my time here displayed to me how much I want to help the poor. Who else takes an internship to see what is "wrong" with microfinance to see how it can be changed? Who else is so humbled by their time down here that they literally almost throw the internship away in arrogance and selfishness to only take a mighty stab to the heart?

Already as I confess this to you, the fight has begun. I could do so well, make so much back in the States, or over in Europe. But that makes this decision all the more inevitable. I know what it means to make the hard decision or to realize the hard decision and run away from it.

I want you all to know I am literally dreading going back to the States. I don't want to leave. And I don't want to go back to my own culture, my own wealth. This will sound arrogant, but I understand poverty as best as any 21 year old can. It is 21 year olds like me that need to be out there living and working with the poor. So there you have it, my internship wrapped up into one blogpost.

Nightlife

Last night Dan and I decided to try out Dominican nightlife here in Santiago. However, things ended up changing for the better. One of the employees from the Puerto Plata office and her boyfriend were visiting Dan's host mom for the night and so instead of bar hopping we invited them to come with us. A tad disappointed at first because I wanted to see just how crazy Dominicans could get I quickly realized that if I want to party, I can do that in downtown DC or Philly. But to be able to spend the night with two Dominicans in their own culture, that is priceless.

So we set off in the hot humid night towards the monument. Thankfully there was a cool breeze but it was still easy to feel what remained of the oppressive heat that seeped into every corner of the city by midday. We had no idea where to go, as I was the only "local" and had only read about the bars in Lonely Planet and the street they were on. We walked around the monument first, enjoying the view of the expansive city with all its lights below. Heading down, we passed the main bar street and came upon a billiard room. Thankfully these two Christians do drink beer and we got an ice cold Presidente to share and played three rounds of pool. Despite 8-ball being played the same here, it isn't quite the same with bachata and merengue blasting amidst the swirling air caused by 8 fans hopelessly trying to keep the air cool. I played horribly as usual, but we weren't there to play, just to enjoy each other's company. I felt bad for Dan, his Spanish was limited so he couldn't enjoy all of the conversations. Once we were tired or scratching, we moved on to a local bar where a merengue group was performing. There is nothing like listening to merengue whilst sipping on Presidente watching bodies bounce up and down to the deep African rhythm and feeling a cool soft breeze underneath the dark Dominican night sky. It was almost surreal, after having forced myself to read about this in textbooks for Spanish class, to actually be in the middle of this fascinating thing called Dominican culture.

So that was my night. And I will remember this night for a long time to come.

No Es Feo, Es Diferente

Today I am back in Puerto Plata. There wasn't much to do in Santiago, so I took the chance to go out and see another office and how things run. I usually come along with Helen, and today was no different besides having an extra person in the car. There is a new gerente in the office in Santo Domingo Oeste and he is up here observing and being trained by Helen for the week. Our first meeting was with a group that is missing payments, nothing new there and they day seemed to be turning out to be rather mundane. Almost a bit disappointed at the regularity, we headed out quickly to our next meeting. It was about a half hour drive west to a coastal town called Sousua. The meeting was a reconocimiento, which is the last day of training for new banks and groups where the gerente comes out to sort of quiz the new clients and see if they really understand what is expected of them and Esperanza. The bank was way out in the countryside. We turned off Highway Five onto a dirt road filled with rocks, trash, and potholes. Inching our way along, we then turned up a steep road that seemed ready to turn into a rockslide at any moment, and continued climbing the side of a mountain until we reached the site. We arrived late and most of the women were waiting for us. Now before I continue, I need to preface the next part of the story. As we headed out from Puerto Plata we drove along the malecón, which is the oceanfront street common in many Dominican towns. The new gerente mentioned how nice it was and I agreed but said that the beach itself was quite dirty (ugly was the exact word I used). He gave me a hard time for it, and we joked about how I apparently thought the north coast was dirty.

At any rate, we waited for the two missing women to show, when suddenly we decided to travel to the one client's house instead. Upon arriving we were greeted with a few typical hosts: horses, dogs, and cats. And so we sat around the house again waiting for now just one woman to show. So we sat, and sat, and sat. The conversation changed subjects just as quickly as the dark storm clouds moved in, dumped gallons of water, and moved out. At one point a small puppy with a mixture of brown, white and black fur stumbled around the many chairs and feet on the porch sniffing curiously and cautiously at all who were present. Some of the women commented on how cute it was when suddenly a large black male dog drifted our way from the street. The only two people to see it were me and the new gerente. It was soaking wet from the downpour and it was clear it had not had a proper bath in over a year. It also looked a bit sickly, and would never be seen in an American household. I turned to the gerente and said, as I did before on the malecon, "Que feo." He turned to me and said something that almost made my jaw drop three feet.

"No es feo, es diferente."

Translation: it isn't ugly, it is different.

What a view of the world to have! To suddenly see everything as different rather than ugly. Not everything is pretty to one's eye, but everything is different. And that difference is what makes it beautiful. The man with the lazy eye; different and beautiful. The river, with green ooze and overcast with lush greens; different and beautiful. The fact is that all in this world is God's creation and thus beautiful no matter how feo your eyes make it out to be.

Microfinance is ugly, harsh, and difficult. But it is beautiful. The success discovered, the confidence restored, the love renewed, and the joy replenished in a dirty and harsh environment is thrilling. It takes time to finally see such a world, and it will take me years to train my eyes to see this world as different, not ugly. But it is possible, and I will try until I see this world as God sees it: rare, varied, different, and because of that: beautiful.

Ignorance & Perception

If there is anything I have learned from my times of travel, it is this: the majority of what we see, how we see, and how we react is all based on our perceptions. Certainly mine differ to an extent from yours. But all of our perceptions are rooted in the same culture. Talk to a Frenchman, a Dominican, a Ghanaian, or even a Dutchman, and suddenly you realize that what was right and wrong for you is not the same for them. Examples? Personal responsibility and liability. Or the importance of the individual versus the group. Social norms. Words and phrases.

For example, saying no is usually very passive in American culture, whereas Dominicans and the Dutch are very much direct. Americans also value an individual's rights more so than the groups. We put up with signature after signature to enjoy mere paddle boating or ice skating. Elsewhere, you pay and merely hop in the boat. Anything that happens to you is your own responsibility. Why should others have to put up with waivers for your irresponsibility?

And our view of God is different, and almost always reflective of the culture one identifies with. Americans, valuing success and determination generally describe God as one of wealth who is always pushing forward, working with His creation to make a successful world. The Dutch see a more passive, loving God reflective of the way their tiny culture, surrounded by massive countries, has had to adapt and accept others in order to survive (if no one were to like the Dutch, trade would never occur, and the Dutch rely on trade, hence their famous tolerance towards many things). Neither is wrong. But neither is right.

Our cultural ignorances we display (War in Iraq, banning burkas, terrorist plots, giving Obama a piece of a slave ship, giving the Queen DVDs that don't work) are perfect metaphors for the truth that we don't understand God. We find it crazy to use only your right hand to accept items from someone (as in Ghana) or to allow legal prostitution and drug use, only because we don't understand the cultures these norms come from. That isn't to say some are right or wrong, but I am not arguing that. Most ignorances come from a lack of understanding. So, our ignorances of God come from us not understanding Him. The Dutch's view of God is flawed. But so is the American and Dominican. So which is right? All of them. Just as we value community in American churches through worship, bible studies, etc. we need to extend that community to the international world. Talking to Dutch, Germans, Ghanaians, Dominicans, Nicaraguans, Aussies, British, Russians, and Lithuanians has shaped my view of God by teaching me about new sides of who He is. I will never fully understand Him (or Her to please the advocates of gender neutrality), but my idea of who He is is broader because of my time with people from different mindsets.

What is There to Understand About Love?

Why are there just some songs that seem to touch right at the emotion intended? I suppose what I mean by that is that some songs you can tell are just written to be enjoyed while others are written from experiences and truth.

I am a prodigal son, perhaps more so than others. I tend to be the one that, when pushed to my limits by God, I usually turn my back on Him and run away. Not physically as, say Jonah, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Sometimes I literally will say to Him, "I am done playing your games" and what ensues is an extended time of blatant disregard. For me, I don't use sinful acts to rebel. Rather, I just chose to ignore my Christian calling. That does include sinning, but my focus isn't to just sin and anger God, my decision is to earn back control of my life.

Because that is what this all really boils down to: control. For me, so much of my life has been out of control. Things have managed my life and even made decisions for me. So I am hesitant to give up to God what little control of my own life I have. I am sure some of you are beginning to think I am going crazy, seeing as how I mentioned a song just two paragraphs above. "I Need You to Love Me" by BarlowGirl is sort of my embarrassing song I like. Granted the group is geared towards Christian girl tweens, but if one actually listens to the words they can't hear just how much of the emotion conveyed in the song is understood by the women of the group. But how does it relate to my control? (Note: the following is going to be me being very open.)

Love has been perhaps the thing least under my control. Considering that I have but begun to understand familiar love, I have never gained a solid grasp on the four letter word. In my past, and still to this day, I have built walls, lashed out at others, and literally cried myself to sleep from confusion and hurt. I am fragile when it comes to the integral emotion because I have never owned it before. Honestly, few people have. But moreover, if I have trouble understanding love here on Earth, how can I possibly understand God and His love? The moment the words trust and love come into my head in conjunction with G O D I shut up. Perhaps I have reason to not trust Him? (Only partially serious) But the fact is that I have trouble trusting Him and thus I have trouble accepting His love and rescinding control, or rather my attempts to control, that emotion.

My time here was to demonstrate to me that I can love. And the trust that comes with that love is good. I haven't been so great at working at this, seeing how I am 9 weeks into a 12 internship, but nevertheless I have learned, and I need to take this new understanding of love, control, and trust, and apply them daily.

So I want to thank the following people, for being God's instruments in teaching me this amazing lesson: Laura, Liz, Ben, and Kelsey.

Thank You

Untitled

I must admit, I have started this post 4 different times. I can't find focus. I don't know what to write. There are so many deep and raw emotions inside of me, that as I begin to write about one, the others come swelling up confusing me and convincing me this post is all wrong.

I am happy. I am sad. I am energetic. I am tired. I am angry. I am confused. And I am content.

Happy that I am in the DR, living and breathing the culture (and pollution)

Sad that just as my lack of Spanish expertise limits my relationships, my lack of trust in people does as well.

Energetic to know how much I have learned and changed so much.

Tired from not knowing who I truly am; that all I have known and understood could possibly be wrong.

Angry at arrogance and success.

Confused about my goals and mission in life.

Content in the amazing relationships I have made here. Four people have entered my life in a radical way and I hope this is but the beginning of a lifetime of friendship.

There, laid out all nice and easy like a business major would do.

Microfinance over Spaghetti

This is Milagro (her nickname). I had the pleasure of meeting her this morning during one of the rountine bi-weekly meetings for repayment. The coordinator of her group, I ended up spending quite a bit of time with her and her one friend interviewing them. Milagro sells natural products, from medicines to supplements.But perhaps what is most striking about her is the excitment of the success she has found. She told me during the interview, before we went to her house to take the photo, that she received a check the other day for $127. And then she proceeded to remind me about every twenty minutes. The excitement it gave her, and certainly should, $127 bucks is about RD$4,500 pesos, was amazing and it made me realize something.

For one, microfinance isn't the sweeping reform of economic development people tout it as. And HOPE knows that and doesn't make it out to be anything of the sort. But what it is, and what it does well, is give people hope and joy, something few had before. Even those that find hardships after their loan (like one today, but if you want to read it, you have to become a donor of HOPE so they can send it to you, so go give them money!) say that there is so much more regularity to their lives that the hardships aren't as hard.

Microfinance works. Not as some make it out to. But it works. It is dirty, it is hard, but it transforms. It gives hope, it gives confidence, it makes leaders. Poverty will never go away, but we can minimize the effects of it, and give some joy, such as a paycheck of $127 from hard work.

What about the spaghetti? Well, microfinance works in other ways as well. The focus isn't on the money. Certainly Esperanza needs the clients to repay, and they most definitely hope that they find success with their businesses. But the key to that success comes from building proper relationships. And so, after talking to Milagro and her friend for an hour, they invited me to come over sometime to eat spaghetti. Obviously, I took them up on the offer, and hope to return in the next two weeks for Dominican Spaghetti (which is amazing). Two complete strangers, now friends with me all because of microfinance.

Mundanity is Exciting

I believe I have become complacent. Day in and day out, it has become a routine for me. I go into meetings with really nothing happening to excite me (or things failing to surprise me....). And it isn't because I am not enjoying my time down here. This is an experience of a lifetime and I feel as though I am missing out on half of what there is to offer here. Or are my expectations too high? I think I am merely confronting a sudden truth many people don't seem to discover. It really does require spending extended time in poverty to have it hit you.


Poverty isn't anything new. It isn't enthralling or captivating to me anymore. My heart is not moved by every story I hear. My eyes don't take a second glance at the paint peeling from the wood having been pummeled by season after season of downpours and hot humid sunshine. My heart doesn't drop as I hear about suffering or starvation, or even stress from not knowing where the next paycheck is going to come from (paycheck is being used here figuratively). And no it is not because I live in a city of incredible wealth where Inifinitis and Porsches can be commonplace. I see poverty, each day. But I have seen it so much, that it doesn't affect me as much. And it isn't that I am cold or pesamitic. But human suffering, while sad, isn't new or exciting for me anymore. It is life. As is riding a scooter to work each day. Or eating mangu or fried salami. 

So am I missing out here? Or are my expectations too high? I think my expectations are too high. To constantly be looking for something new and exciting, where does that lead? There will always be new in this world. But that ceaseless search for new would always lead to exhaustion and a lack of satisfaction. It is important to stop. So,

Stop.

Look around at the normalcy in your life. Then think about how abnormal it is. And find something new in something old and mundane. For the excitement you find in normalcy far outweighs the excitement of something new. 

Catalina Island, Dominican Republic

Things I Will Miss

Dominican Time
Platanos
Yaroa
Smelly Streets
Bartering
Dominos
Barrios
Reuniones Biseminales
Beaches
Palm Trees (REAL ones, not like LA)
Haitians
Santiago
Motoconchos
Gua guas
Uncertainty
Being Ripped Off
Tercer Cielo
Bobby
Beans
Power Hour at 6 AM
27 Charcos
Irregularity
Cafe Santo Domingo
Ham and Cheese Sandwiches
Monumento a Los Heroes
Carro Publicos
La Sirena
Pesos
Monfongo
Rice
Kola Real
Colmados
Banco BHD
Avenida de 27 de Febrero
Caso Cerrado
Car Alarms
Crystal Blue Water
¿como tu e ta?
My Commute To Work

The DR, my other home.

I Miss

Chipotle
The Metro
Warm Showers
Ledo's
English
Clean Streets
Driving
Pancakes
Water Fountains
T9
Familiarity
Butler's Orchard
Damascus Regional Park
Paved Roads
Consistent Power
Summer Thunderstorms
Best Buy
Lucy
Free Refills
Apple Pie
Mountain Dew
High Speed Internet
$5 Footlongs
Block Parties
Random Drives to Poolesville
Speed Cameras (not)
Regularity
The Mall
Mashed Potatoes
Parties at the Pond
Volleyball
Trash Cans
Tyson's Corner
Regal
Innocence
O's Games
All Nighters of Halo
Tradition
A Week in Scotch Plains, NJ
Bologna
Freshly Cut Lawns
Lookout Station
Honeysuckle
Crosswalks
Proper Drainage
The Sock Game
Doritos
Potato Salad

Home

Que Linda

Harsh Realities and Haitians

Unfortunately, this is not going to be a happy blog post. Ironically, I am in as good a mood as I can. For those that know me well, I can be blunt and this post is going to be very direct. You have been warned.

All you Westerners in Haiti: Get Out.

You have become parasites, using people's suffering and pain as a way to satisfy that unquenchable thirst in your own soul to purge yourself of that inexplicable guilt. Wow, that was harsh but it speaks to a massive truth many people fail to see and realize. The truth is, in your quest to bring meaning and justification to your indulgences, you have ended up hurting more than helping. Haiti is not going to solve its problems now that the entire world has it in the palms of its hands, seeking to nurture and restore the country back to health. The truth is, Haiti was never healthy to begin with and this massive influx of capital is only worsening the situation.

There is a place for aid in this world, don't get me wrong, but when aid is abused and overused, suddenly cultures are perverted, poisoning the work ethic and responsibility of its people. Just yesterday my parents and I went out to dinner in the old section of Santiago. It is not uncommon to see children, namely Haitian children, begging for money. On this particular evening, the sun had just begun to cast long shadows across the streets and life was slowly starting to wind down for the day. It had, thankfully, just rained brining in some cooler air that would brisk by lightly providing some reprieve from the oppressive heat of the day. As we crossed a particular narrow road following along Calle del Sol, a Hatian girl in a little pink dress came up to us. Staring directly at us she held out her hand, palm up, and began to ask for money in Creole. She was no more than two and a half years old. She was so young, in fact, that she had trouble focusing on begging. As she followed us along the street, with each puddle that had collected in the rivets and cracks of the broken sidewalk, she would be distracted and make a splash, enjoying the entertainment of the disruption she caused in the water. But, as she moved on and reached drier sections she would remember the task her mother had put before her. As if some paranormal being controlled her arm, it was immediately raised up back into the open position waiting for some gold peso coins to fall in for her to grasp and proudly take back home to her mother. No more than three years old (probably closer to two), this girl could not possibly understand her actions. My mother began to cry from a mixture of two emotions: sadness and anger. Sadness for the life this girl lived, not able to enjoy the life even most Dominican children her age enjoy. Instead she was forced to beg while others played in puddles all day long. And anger for the life her mother made her a slave to begging, and how it would affect this young girl all the way to her deathbed years from now.

After dinner my mother valiantly stated that if we passed that girl on the way home, she was going to give her some of our leftover food. I gently said no. But the emotions of a mother of four swelled inside her and she began to argue with me. Firmly, her idea was shot down again and again until she gave up. I am not cold. But I turn a cold shoulder to the harsh realities of poverty. By giving that a girl some food I confirm to her all of the lies her mother taught her about gringos. I then make her realize that all she needs to do to gain a meal each day is be persistent enough in begging and soon she will be fed.

The reality is that for these people, those living on so little each day, it is life for them. And while none are content with their current situation, it is an insult to them to come in and claim to feel for their suffering. So back to Port Au Prince. This earthquake, it is nothing new to them. The grief they feel from what happened, it is but a magnification of the suffering they face on a daily basis. And so to come flooding in with aid, they ask themselves, where was all of this last month, last summer, or two years ago? We must turn cold shoulders to poverty and not get so wrapped up in the emotion of the suffering. For while it is a pain and struggle we have never experienced before (nor will ever understand) it is nothing new to them. Rather, we need to get wrapped up in the emotion of the release from poverty.

If we allow our focus to be in the present, on the current sufferings, pain will retain its hold resulting in a cyclone of repetitious agony. But if we focus on the future, we can calm that storm, perhaps not dispel it, but at least calm it. We are feeding the beast in Haiti, this child is proof of that.

There are ways to calm that storm, to focus on the future rather than the present. Certainly micro finance is but one way. When the next tragedy strikes, step back and remember that beast lying in the brush slowly feeding on the guilt of the wealthy. Then take action.

A Tale of Two Normalcys

This past weekend I attempted to escape from regularity of my job and life down here by spending the weekend with my parents at a resort. While my time with parents was liberating (and instilled some desire for the familiarities of home), my time with the resort was more constricting.

I just never felt comfortable.

It certainly was not the beds, the beach, the staff, or the food. Quality is certainly important to these resorts. I rested well and ate even better. And at the same time, I was not feeling guilty knowing that many of the clients I have met and talked to know people who would literally beg for just a scrap of the leftover food I was too full to eat. (On a side note, I noticed I ate a lot less, demonstrating that Americans tend to eat more than is actually needed and all we need is a little training to teach out bodies so). No, my heart did not palpitate for each poor soul of this forgotten people. Don't call me sinful, I already know that.

But what was bothering me? I felt as though I should know and my answer always seemed to be right there ready to jump out and present itself, clearing up the massive confusion in my head. But it never came.

Until today.

I have to admit I was a little stressed about today. Just traveling with my parents, the confusion for them, and the responsibility for me, it can be a lot. And it also required me to actually plan, rather than just leaving them at a resort where every detail is planned and taken care of. But as we headed closer and closer to Santiago the stress began to lift. And finally, as if in one sweeping emotion comfort began to inundate my body. The undefinable stress that had been omnipresent in my bones and muscles, sapping energy and patience, disappeared. It happened as we came around a turn on the highway and the view, once of the sides of mountains with lush green palm trees and brush, opened up to the entire Cibao valley with Santiago off in the distance amidst the haze. I have seen the sight before, so the view certainly wasn't the cause of my relief. No, and this is not me being over dramatic, but the feeling I had was one that was ever familiar.

I was home.

The comforts of rice, beans, whole hearted conversations, honest and real faith, platanos, and bland food, have gotten to me. That is my normal life and I missed it. But that was only part of the problem. My body knows that my true "normal" life, i.e. what I grew up with, is back in America: the comforts of AC, my eating habits and my sleeping habits (and people that speak my language). And so to be in this resort merely confused me. I was become acclimated to a new normalcy but suddenly I placed myself into an environment of past familiarities and I felt extreme discomfort (poor, poor me). But in all seriousness, suddenly what had been normal to me was different and "new." Imagine the confusion that would bring.

But at the same time, the truth is that these emotions were exasperated by the conflicting desires of mine. I wanted to enjoy my time at the resort, but felt it went against my work and reasoning for being down here. It does: the resort stands for opulence, wealth, and enjoyment, whereas my work stands for work, struggles, and pain. Moreover, these resorts are for people who have no desire to understand or learn about a culture so rich in history, traditions, and stories. The Dominican Republic is more than bachata, merengue, and mamajuana. Yet these people head back to their respective countries to tell stories of how they learned how friendly and nice everyone in the DR is and that they absolutely loved the culture. They got but a taste. And so have I, but let's just say my pallet is a tad broader than the limited selection a resort can offer in seven days.

I enjoyed my time. But I am not sure I can ever look at the Caribbean the same.

Chaotic Organization

I am judgmental. I am arrogant. And I am ignorant.

Oh woe is me.

But the fact is that I am. Everyone is, but you seem to really take notice of your pride when abroad. Suddenly everything is wrong and you must fix the problems. But what may appear to be broken is perhaps functioning better than anything you have seen before. I think I struggle most with accepting what is around me. I want to change my environment rather than let it change me. I hold on to the sanity I know: my upbringing, my values, my norms.

But it is my own instinct for survival, my defense to cling to "normalcy" that prevents me from truly connecting and understanding a culture. Today I learned this during our commute to work. The ten minute ride includes what I have nicknamed the "Climb From Hell." It is about a half mile long street up the side of a hill. But the problem comes from the way it weaves back and forth crossing a few busy streets. As you climb it, traffic always builds up from conchos picking up and dropping off people. Usually, as the ache in my inner thighs returns about a quarter of the way up, I start to get angry. Not to where I am popping a blood vessel, but where I just can't believe how that driver has the nerve to pull out into traffic stopping both directions. Or how that women takes her sweet old time getting into the concho, making us stop.

It is complete and utter chaos. Traffic lights are needed at each corner. Problem solved.

But perhaps it isn't chaos. For I have certainly been on the receiving end of these events. I am never rushed into a motoconcho, I can always take my time. And we have never waited longer than a minute at an intersection. For by that time someone has pulled out into the intersection, effectively becoming the red light. And so, even though there is no official order, perhaps because everyone is slowed up at one point, but then also at the other end, causing the hold up, the order comes from the fact that people make apparent chaos (ironic though because it isn't chaos, confused yet?)

How people have responded to not having rules and regulations has ended up making order, no matter how unorganized it may seem. Next time you are sitting at a traffic light, waiting, waiting, waiting, just think: a minute ago a Dominican would have pulled out and finally gotten his way, not having to wait for the "order" we are so obsessed with in the West. So who really has the better way?

As tempting as it may be, don't pull out into an intersection the next time you are waiting impatiently. It won't work. Trust me. Let Dominicans be Dominicans.

Microfinance is dirty, dirty, dirty

So today I have decided I must confess to you all that microfinance is not some clean amazing answer to poverty. It is dirty, rough, nasty, and hard. I am not sure why, but I ingnorantly thought that the poor down here would be responsible honest people. And most are. As are most Americans. And microfinance is good. But it has its problems, and having been here for 6 weeks, I have certainly seen where those problems lie.

Example: Today was my third visit to a bank on the outskirts of Santiago. This was also the second time he had had to return in order to receive the payment. If the bank does not have the money in full, they must return at an agreed time to pay in full. If one peso is missing and no one can cover it, they cannot pay. Well, my first visit saw half of the members missing and us returning with the manager of the office the following week. They finally paid, though the meeting took forever and Helen (the manager) constantly reminded them of what they agreed to and the importance of adhereing to the standards set by Esperanza. Well apparently no one heard because this third meeting I was at was yet another meeting of Robert returning at a later date to collect money because the bank had failed to pay on time for a second meeting. And how many clients were there? 10 of 20. I suppose that is better than the 8 that were there from my first meeting? Threats flew and eventually the responsibility turned to me (which it should not have) where I was asked to sort of threaten the clients and use my position to enforce or intimidate the clients. It did work, but wasn't my role or responsibility. I felt horrible threatening these people, and though I was frustrated with these people's blatent disregard and disrespect, I kept thinking to myself, how much respect have they actually gotten over their lives?

The fact is that Westerners cannot stand when someone crosses us. If we are not given the respect we assume we deserve, we let it known to the world. But take it from the poor's perpsective. They did not ask to be born into a slum with no running water and unreliable electricity. They did not ask to have inadequate medical care or education standards. And yet the world has turned away ignoring their struggles. You might be quick to say, then it seems as though the moment Esperanza hands them their first loan, one of their first signs of respect, they would certainly behave better! No. And it is not as if they are acting like children or are cheats. No, I would say many are trying, but the reality is that they are humans and they are imperfect. Just as people cheat in the US, people cheat and lie here too.

Sure, 90, 99, or even 100% of microfinance loans are repaid. But the sweat and work that goes behind all that to get those loans repaid is certainly not reflected in such a number. And not to paint microfinance in a bad light. Rather, it is to have you all, as I have begun, to understand the hard work these men and women on both sides put in to find success with a $200 loan.

I should be a fountain of hubris

I cannot let go of it. I cannot seem to shake off my desire to cast my own cultural and social perceptions on this internship and on life here in the Dominican Republic.

Consider this recent campaign of thought my arrogance has delivered over the past month:

This internship has been a failure. I have not made any progress and I have seemed to been not only wasting my own personal and valuable time, but also the limited time that these loan officers have to try and help the hundreds of poor desperate for a loan with Esperanza (knowingly or unknowingly). The severe lack of leadership and communication between the head office in Lancaster and the office in Santo Domingo has severely hindered any opportunities for me to complete this internship with any achievement whatsoever.

<End Verbatim Self Confession of Arrogance and Isolated Thought>

I have a few bones to pick with myself here. One, what exactly am I here for? Did I take on this internship so that it may be one more eye-catching allotment on my resume for the ever picky firms to hopefully glance over and notice? Or did I do this internship to hopefully gain the notice of others of my sufferings, to earn a respect I already had obtained by suffering and pointing out so?

Or did I take this internship to help the poor?

Oops.

If HOPE wanted to at this point, they could technically dispel me from my position as an intern for falsely interviewing on three occasions. Okay, that may be taking it too far, and I seriously doubt they would. For although my intentions were not 100% behind helping the poor, I didn't necessarily lie. Please, just take that hyperbolic statement as a reflection of the severity of the following:

We must consistently reflect on the desires of our hearts and ensure that each and every of our actions represents not the true desire of them, but rather the true desire of God.

This can be tricky. Because many times, our own selfish desires can align quite well with God's plans for our lives. Case in point, me. Perhaps I do have a passion to help the poor (God's will) but it has become twisted with my desire for attention, suffering, or even personal gain. Not to say one can't gain personal experience out of such an internship. Nor to say that I am solely down here for personal gain or selfish reasons, I do want to help the poor. I merely need to continually reflect on my hearts desires and make sure my actions reflect God's will for my life.

Second bone to pick (I hate that saying, it is quite ugly..): Why do I continually cast my own cultural expectations and knowledge on a culture I really know nothing about? I am continually judging my time here based on my output, my work, and my efficiency. Why? Because it is the American way. And by American standards I am failing. But note the absurdity of that sentence: by American standards I am failing. Quick obvious question: Am I in America? (Note: That is not to say I am doing absolutely nothing down here)

Things are done differently down here. And my internship, whether here or in India or Ghana, is nothing like an internship in the States. I need to constantly remind myself in my disappointment or frustration that these emotions are stemming from my failed attempt at changing my perceptions and expectations to properly align with the views of the culture. I don't expect to fully succeed in my limited time here. But I can begin a process of changing my mindset to be more open to change and differences.

So, can I shake off this desire? Not entirely. But I can begin the change. Quick test:

Would I change anything about this internship?

HECK YES.

But in seriousness, my honest answer would be no. It hit me this morning when I was relaxing in bed taking my nice old time getting up (I already miss it...). I have been given this amazing time here, to meet amazing people (Americans and Dominicans), to see an absolutely gorgeous country, and to encounter my faith and personal beliefs (including cultural arrogance) in a radical and direct way. What has happened these past 6 weeks I wouldn't change for the world. And it makes me only more excited for the next 6 to come.

Hubris is a Greek term used in dramas of the time to describe the element of said dramas where the hero comes to pay for the past mistake of pride. The official definition is excessive pride. I liked my intellectual explanation better. Thankfully for me, I have been given the opportunity to pay for my mistake of hubris but halfway through the internship so I can enjoy the remaining half.

Healthcare and Corruption

No I am not commenting on the healthcare bill passed in the States (see, I made a funny!) But in all seriousness today I got the pleasure of experiencing healthcare in the DR. I haven't been feeling well these past few weeks and I think things are getting worse, so I figured I would play it safe and just get things checked out.

True conversation between me and our Director of the Internship (not her official title):

To her:
"I will let you know how it goes. I could end up with cancer, the flu, and HIV from a ten minute checkup"

To me:
"Ha ha. Well don't let them stick you with anything."

Just using that to preface my visit and to help explain my feelings upon entering the clinic. Well while it wasn't a bunch of doctors running around trying to inject people with vaccines and drugs and anti-inflammatories, lets just say that the doctor was certainly a little bit overractive with me. He thinks my ear ache is due to stress (not surprised knowing my body) but he then prescriped an amped up tylenol and then said I should get an ani-inflammatory shot. Remembering the wise words of my liason down here, I stopped them then and there.

And then, as we got back in the car, my host brother and I noticed something stuck between the windshield and the windshield wiper. David had gotten a ticket for parking in a no-parking zone (for which there were no signs or indicators that it was indeed a no parking zone). He now owes the parking meter company 300 pesos, of which he defiantely told me he was not going to pay. Sort of amused thinking he was joking, it took me a few seconds to realize that he wasn't. David is not going to pay his ticket. Why?

Because a few years ago the mayor of Santiago announced that in order to raise needed funds for the city, parking meeters were going to be installed in the central of the city. However, the reality is that the mayor set up a private company to enforce the laws and so any money collected from parking fines or meeters doesn't head into the government's funds but rather into a nice private account owned by, you guessed it, the mayor.

Corruption up to the wah zoo. Be happy rule of law exists in our country. And be happy you don't have drug happy doctors trying to get you to take pills left and right. Or do we?

I am not my own, for I have been made new. Please don't let me go, I desperately need You.


No, these are not my words. I took them from Owl City. But they certainly speak volumes with the emotion they convey. Today my devotion focused on Matthew 5:30

"If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and cast it from you; for it is more profitable for you that one of your members perish, than for your whole body to be cast into hell"

Owl City speaks of what has happened and what will occur. As Oswald Chambers puts it, there is not one saint yet that didn't first live life with the characteristic of being maimed. When we are spiritually reborn, we begin a life of restraint, or rather we should live a life of restraint. So we limit ourselves by asking God to intervene, to stop us from committing such actions that aren't necessarily sin but actions that are not conducive with the new life Christ offers us.

This is what Owl City refers to. He recognizes that his acceptance of the Christian faith has brought to him a new life. But it is a life of purging and refining. And so he must cling to what is true during that purging. Suddenly, all in his life is different and new. What once was acceptable is no longer acceptable. Paradigms of life are shattered right before his eyes. His life has purpose beyond the bounds of our world. Such times can be confusing, and so we must rightly ask God to guide us and protect us. As many of the gua gua in this country say,

Dios es my guía. God is my guide.

So I was wrong. Suffering from sin is certainly a part of the Christian walk. But it is only part. On a much larger scale is suffering from the new life in Christ: the purging, the denial, the new boundaries of morals, the new meaning and outlook of life. This is much more terrifying and difficult. Each step of our lives, if we are not scared, uncomfortable, learning, or being purged, we are not truly living out Gods plan for our lives. He has us here not just to expand His kingdom, but also to purify ourselves and make ready the Church. My time here is a time to purge myself of sins and old habits. It is a time of renewal just as much for me as it is for the thousands of women and men that earn a second loan on life with un préstamo con Esperanza.

It does not mean that you need to spend three months in the Dominican Republic. But it does mean that you pursue those times and opportunities to stretch yourself, to be purged, to learn, and to ultimately trust in God. We all will be made perfect, I am observing these changes on a small level each day here. But for perfection to occur, work must first be done.

Denying Community

So I was going to blog about my devotional today, entitled "Receiveing yourself in the Fires of Sorrow." But beyond the fact that I have beaten that issue to death (but I will say Oswald Chambers does a much more effiecient and clear explanation than I), there is something I really have been wanting to take note of, and I want a picture to go along with this, so look for one in the future.

This was something I didn't actually take note of until about a week ago. We take back roads to work each day, avoiding insane traffic and incompatent drivers for safety and time. So we are passing through barrios and small commercial centers. But there is a major difference here than compared to back home. People. Late in the afternoon when Danny and I make the commute back home, beyond the sun casting long shadows on the narrow streets we navigate precariously, there are people out and about. As the temperature finally cools off, men and women begin to sit in front of their house, making conversations with passerbys. Children play in the street with one another. And everyone knows everyone. This community is an actual community. I always find it ironic back in the States when  the news comes on and an anchor will say "A local Montgomery Country community was rocked last night with the death of..." I mean, is Damascus, MD really a community? Becuase the way I see it, I know about 1/3 of my neighbors and I think I see children playing outside with each other about once every two weeks. That boy that was murdered, I have never heard of him before. I will have no idea the impact his death will have on his family (this is an example and totally hypothetical, no one to my knowledge has passed away in Damascus, MD) In fact, the only time I really hear of problems in my hometown is through the gossip that runs rampent.

And perhaps that is why the Christian faith is so prevalent in developing countries. Growth is happening outside the developed world. Christianity requires community. It requires relationships, people, support, communication. But if a culture doesn't have a focus on community, Christianity will struggle to survive. Look at Europe. And no, one cannot use the argument that Socialism is a sign of a culture valuing community. In and of itself, socialism reflects an understanding that humans will ultimately fail in taking care of the poor and thus the government should step in, not an understanding that the community is important. Side note, moving on. Wealth does not exist with community. Europe was the first part of the world to ever experience consistent wealth (as in power and wealth for more than a dynasty or empire), and look where Christianity (religion for that matter) is dying first and fastest. And the same can be said for parts of the United States as well.

Huh, ironically enough this turned out to be a depressing post anyways. Well, no not really. Because we have the opportunity to change this shift. We need to learn from Dominicans. Sitting outside your front door from 5 to 7 each night is a great way to practice the Christian faith. Build that community, because it is key to you walk with Christ. I need to as well down here. When in Rome do as the Romans do, and so I need to sit outside my front porch and meet new people.So I suppose I can relate it to my devo:

 Christ was tempted to bail out on God's plan for His life. But he states:

"... and what shall I say? 'Father, save me from this hour?' No, it was for this very reason I came to this hour." John 12:27

The very reason you are on this planet is to spread Christianity to those to which it is unknown. That is done through relationships and building up confidence in faith in others. Go into those uncomfortable moments and build up community., don't deny God those moments He has planned for your life.

"Pop!" Goes My Head

I must confess my arrogance and almost parasitic nature. I did not do this internship for the attention. There are far easier ways to do that and remain in the States. But rather, in taking this internship, I began to seek attention. Within the first week here in Santiago I soon found myself desiring for people to know the great work I was doing.

In all honesty, I am doing nothing. What I do is minimal to the workings of God around the globe this very minute. And yet, here I was swelling in pride when in reality I should have been deflating from humility. This will not be a pity trip, but it will be a lesson for all. I hope people read this to learn from it. To use it and apply it in their own lives.

It began this afternoon. I had mentioned to a few of the other interns my struggle with not getting some of the recognition I felt I deserved. I didn't want a parade or a flashing sign, but I saw others getting more attention for, say, studying abroad or working with a local church. Yet here I was in a poor country serving the poorest of poor and people took more of an interest in them?!

Yes. And it is right for them too. Well, one of the interns sent me this passage she stumbled on:

"Be carefully not to do your 'acts of righteousness before men, to be seen by them"
Matt 6:1

And so on and so on. I am not saying that I took this internship for it to be seen by others, but the desire certainly grew along with my pride these first few weeks. But then it all collapsed before my eyes right after I was given that verse. Two new banks got their loans today, meaning the associates had to come to the office, deal with some paperwork and receive their loan. These women entered in to receive no more than $200. They had to show the utmost in humility to get this loan. By entering into our office, they are publicly stating they are poor and they need any money they can get to continue providing for themselves and their family. They go through a test, literally, to determine if they are poor enough. If they have gotten to this stage then they have answered questions on how much they make (if anything) and how much they own. Or rather, how little. And yet I walk into this office each day frustrated that people don't notice that I spent $390 on a flight down here or I was able to afford such a trip.

I never did this blog for people to see the "great things" I was doing. That was never the intention and I hope it doesn't appear that way. Rather, this blog is a way to allow people to see God's work with the poorest of the poor through micro finance.

So next time you want a parade with flashing lights and blinking billboards, remember the humility these women display just to receive $200, a small amount that changes their lives forever.

Go with Passion

Who are we that we do what we do? What makes me, me? Our passions, our desires, they developed somewhere. But where exactly? I can't answer that question. But I can make a few observations about this thing we call passion.

Today I was able to visit a different office about an hour north of Santiago in Puerto Plata. It just so happens that the manager of the office is moving to Santo Domingo to take on a new position, and so Helen, the manager of the Santiago office, is taking over for the time being. I observed two meetings with one of the loan officers. She and I got talking back at the office, and she mentioned that while she can get frustrated as she had been just an hour earlier with one of the banks, she knows her heart is with the poor and she could never leave her job with Esperanza. Almost dumbfounded at such a sincere and honest statement, I was immediately intrigued, albeit also a tad confused. Who could ever want to work with the poor their entire life? I have only done one month here and I am struggling. But her passion doesn't mean she doesn't hate her job some days. We joked about the problems she had, but in truth, that joy underscored the frustrations she would have. Sure, the fact that half of the associates don't show certainly gets her upset. But she loves the poor so much that the joy of seeing them eventually pay in full, even if it comes by pulling teeth and fighting with these clients for a week, is totally worth it.

Sitting there, I came to realize something I am not so sure I wanted to accept. My passion, while perhaps obvious to others hasn't been so clear to me. But since my time in Ghana I have started to understand the direction my life is going to take. I have been afraid to tell anyone for fear that it would be truth. Well, it is, and I am becoming more and more certain that it is my Truth from Him. Unfortunately for anyone that reads this blog (all four or five of you) I want to be certain before I let it be known to others.

So what was the point of this posting? Hey, not everything in this blog is about me. No, this post is about you. If you are not asking yourself what you are passionate about, you are not living. As this loan officer said, God gives us our desires and strengths, we need to use them. For her, it is working with the poor. Wherever you are now, at your desk at work, sitting at home on the couch with the World Cup on, or sipping a chocolate mocha at Starbucks hoping to fit in to the niche that just oozes from the store, I want you to ask yourself:

At this exact moment, is what I am doing something I am passionate about?

If it is, ask God to continue to use your heart. If it isn't, or if you feel any doubt, small or big, begin to ask God to show you your true passions. Truth is, you probably already know them. But the social, "financial", relational, and personal pressure of today has most likely caused you to push your passions so far aside you have forgotten them. Don't consider it crazy to change jobs because you feel your talents and heart are somewhere else. Do not doubt that inkling to take a serious pay cut to work with the poor. Do as I and the other four interns in the DR have done. Do something radical that reflects your passion and trust God to provide. He will. For if He can provide for the poorest of poor here in Santiago, Puerto Plato, San Pedro, La Romana, Hato Mayor, and more, most certainly He can provide for you.

You have not lived until you have lived for the passions God has given you.

Un Corazón de un León

I hate poverty. Yet I will hate wealth evermore.

Both poverty and wealth present problems to Christians. But the struggle is quite different. For the wealthy, distractions appear in the form of abundance, social status, and greed. For the poor, distractions appear in the form of hunger, lack of certainty, weakness, and pain.

Call me crazy.

I would rather my Christian walk be one of poverty. True suffering comes from deprivation of something. Starvation takes hold from a deprivation of food. Depression seeds in vacuums of love. It is only until we understand what deprivation of God is do we realize just how much we need Him. Just as I can never empathize with one who starves because I have never starved, I cannot truly empathize with God over my own sin until I have suffered from sin.

But we all suffer from sin.

However, unless we recognize that sin, and thus suffer from it, and thus are deprived of God, we are unable to join God in the celebration of the pain of our lives. Consider this: a woman I interviewed today mentioned her transformation three years ago. Having been Catholic, she had never taken her faith seriously. Then one day a missionary from Canada came into her pueblo to start a Baptist church. Intrigued she began talking to this strange foreigner. After all, why would a rich white person ever leave such a clean and peaceful life for the Dominican Republic? She soon found herself recommitting her faith to Christ through this church. Just a little time following her renewal, she took out her first loan with Esperanza. She finally saw the poverty in her life (hmm, suddenly that opening line doesn't mean the same thing...) and decided to take a stand against it.

No, I was not talking about money when I started this post.

Certainly, lacking money is a type of suffering that can lead to this seemingly unobtainable understanding of God's unfailing love. But more so is the idea that taking the road of poverty; the road that travels low; the road with rocks and debris consistently hindering one's travels; and the road that isn't visible to the untrained eye. This road leads to true joy in the end, no matter how hard it may be. Trust me, as one that has been on that road many times (sadly with many detours) I can say that I have tasted that joy. And I have met people this summer that have grasped just a minuscule piece of it. That woman? She has un corazón de un León. The heart of a Lion. Because she has experienced that joy and is ever more determined to get it. She deserves it, with all of her hardships and sufferings. And so do you.

Hierarchy of Wealth

Why is it that poverty is viewed as a lower status? People always look "up" to wealth, and the poorest of poor are referred to as the "bottom billion." Even in Santiago wealth has everything to do with how high you are. The slums of the city are crammed down into the lowest valleys and by the rivers that cut through the mountains. Perched high above them are brand new apartment buildings with air conditioning and houses (that have windows and not vents) that cast long shadows over the narrow dirt streets that make up the maze of neighborhoods that seem to groan from the congestion and grime.

It is as if the DR has tried to hide its poverty from the rest of the world. Certainly, in the all-inclusive resorts it has. You can come to the DR without even leaving the United States. But in cities such as Santiago that don't have a thriving tourist industry, why do the poor get shoved to the literal bowels of the city? Is it because they smell? I doubt it, as this entire city smells of rot and waste. Is it because they don't have a real door but rather wood slabs attached to a hinge? Does their physical location and the economic situation reflect who they are? If you venture far enough into one of these neighborhoods you may surprise yourself. Step cautiously over that broken glass bottle, take a left at the red painted colmado, and then continue for about 300 yards until you come across two yellow houses. In between the two is a narrow space, wide enough for one person at a time. If are listening for it, you may hear a few voices wafting from the alleyway. For those curious enough, you may decided to slip in between the houses and make your way down to find quite the opposite of smelly, desparate people. The alleyway opens up to three more apartments, crammed in the back of someone's property. Rain water collects in one corner of the opening leaving a puddle that has begun to create mold and mildew on the cement floor and wall. Eight plastic chairs, most broken in mupltiple places, have been set up in a makeshift circle. There are 15 people at this meeting, and most sit on the floor or lean against the wall. But they don't care. They have been able to change their lives for the better. And though the world will still classify them as the poorest of poor, they don't see themselves as poor anymore.

What they were six months ago, that was poor. Today they are rich, and yes, they live in the bottom parts of the city.

Bloated Heads, Niagra Falls, and Port Au-Prince

I have had a few realizations this week that I will share whether anyone wants to hear them or not. For one, this week has been not been so great. First, we being sick and not feeling 100%, and second with the excitement of being in a third world country weaning and the realization that I am in a third world country finally hitting me. I was becoming tired of the culture, of the heat, of the food, of basically my life. It finally hit it's peak Wednesday morning when, sweating like Niagra Falls, I decided that by Saturday I was going to be on an airconditioned airplane heading comfortably back to the land of McDonalds, paved roads, trash cans, and English. If I had the option I would have just left right then and there, but I figured that just walking away from the loan officer without explaining myself might have been awkward, so I figured I would push through the day.

Our second meeting of the day was with a group of Hatians in an apartment complex. Disorganized and with only three able to speak Spanish, we sat around waiting for everyone to show up. Raymond, the loan officer, turned to me and mentioned that while we waited I could conduct my interview. So I turned to the woman (that supposedly spoke Spanish, but it was more like creolish) and listened to her story. She has been living in the DR for a few months on her own in this community of Haitians. Her husband and daughter, along with the rest of her family, are back in Haiti. When I asked her if she had any problems with her loan, she said no. But then I pushed her and asked her that if she had had any problems outside of the loan that affected her loan. And then she mentioned that she is from Port Au-Prince and that her husband was killed in the earthquake. She also mentioned that now her daughter lives with her mother and her newly widowed sister as well.

I am not one of those disaster junkies, one of the thousands that has swarmed to Haiti to help (no offense to anyone over there now). This may result in a lot of backlash, but lets be honest, most people, while having good intentions, are really hurting Haiti more than helping. That is all I am going to say right now, an argument for another time. However, to be in the presence of a woman who has just gone through a drastic change in her life, especially one from a disaster that we all know so much about, was almost, honorable. But it was also a shot to my bloated head.She was her today, able to support her family back in Haiti that she clearly missed so much, because of the loan Esperanza had given her.

The second realization came today, whilst riding on the back of Robert's bike through the streets of Santiago. It hit me then and there, that what I was doing at that exact morning, commuting from bank meeting to bank meeting on the back of a motorbike in the DR isnot normal. No matter what comes of the internship itself (which a lot will don't get me wrong) the experience and the opportunity to be in this country is simply amazing. Sure, their accent frustrates me. And sure, their food is too bland. But I am here. And I am doing the will of God on a day to day basis. Can it get any better than that?

Well, with places like this to go to, no :)

Endurance, not Enjoyment

I hate Americanism. I do not hate American culture. I do not hate American politics (well, that may be a lie). I do not hate American anything. In fact, I love America. But I hate Americanism. I first noticed this in Nicaragua back in 2005. All of the local restaurants and bars were playing American music. Then in Ghana, I talked to men and women who dreamed of one day moving to the US to take on a better life. But the worst was yet to come when I got to the Dominican Republic. Talking to one of the loan officers here in Santiago, I asked him why he called himself Robert and not Roberto.

"Becoose I iz Amaaricun!" he said in a half joking manner.

Robert loves to talk about the US and how he wants to visit his family there and how he is truly American in blood, not Dominican. And I know he loves the DR, but what he said in his best American accent he could conjure up spoke volumes to the problem the DR and many other countries around the world are facing today. The lust for the western world has overtaken many of these poor people. It has twisted their perceptions of work, success and money. One of the other interns told us about a Dominican that came up asking about the States and said that he was sure one day he would travel to American and make millions in a few years time. Any job was available for him and he would soon shoot up to the ranks of the elite. He also thought you could buy a house in Manhattan and it would cost around the same as a flat here in the DR. Thankfully, the intern, Laura, told him otherwise.

I understand these people's desires for a better life. Anyone that lives in a shack with nothing but a tin roof and four wooden walls riddled with holes and weathered down to its last fibers would want a new home, running water, consistent electricity, and a substantial meal each day. But what has happened is that the prevalence of Western culture (in this blog post, American culture) has perverted that notion of change. What used to be a realization that change came about from hard work and struggle has fallen into the pits of conceitedness and self-loathing. Now, the only way to make it big is to leave your family behind, your culture, your language, and your ideology and squeeze into the ever expanding and overcrowded bubble we call the culture of the US.

Don't get me wrong, Dominicans love their culture. They just love the idea of making it big and bringing change to their lives even more. Imagine, tomorrow, you were offered a million dollars so long as you moved to China and lived there for the next 50 years. But perhaps that is not a good comparison. Because the reality is that, we do not necessarily need another dollar in our lives. The majority of the money Americans make is used out of pure enjoyment and entertainment, not endurance. "But my insurance is more than 250 a month and my cell phone bill is climbing up near 100 bucks a month!" If you needed 315 horsepower in your new 2011 Mustang to survive each day, and if you didn't use that iPhone primarily for the new apps you download each day, yes you could use that argument. But for Dominicans, that extra dollar (or 36 pesos) means potentially a larger meal for the three children each night. Or perhaps shoes that actually fit so the walk to work isn't as painful.

Instead of more enjoyment, to a Dominican, more money means a better chance of survival. Now, most Dominicans are not starving to death nor scrounging around in dumps for a new roof or bathroom. But most Dominicans struggle daily and live in the bottom ranks of wealth. And so to them, the perception of money takes on a whole new meaning, so much so that they would be willing to give up their homes and all that is familiar to them to earn just five dollars more a day. This is why micro finance works. Because to them, this capital isn't for new enjoyment, like a $350,000 mortgage on a house is for an American (but that sun room was just the needed touch for us!) No, to them, this small amount of capital is their ticket to a life with less struggles. To them it is certainty that they will feed their children tomorrow. To them, it is a gift from God, not a gift from creditors. To them, it is mana.

I hope and pray that in their quest to alleviate their pain and struggles, they do not lose focus. As they look and dream towards America, may they not lose their view of money as endurance, not enjoyment.

Certainty in Uncertainty

This past weekend was a much needed retreat with the Gringos to the peninsual of Samana. About 4 hours away from Santiago and Santo Domingo, it is perhaps the least touched area of the DR. Underdeveloped and not easy to get to, it is the DR's own version of the Outer Banks, and I hope it stays that way. It is calm and tranquil and the town we stayed in, Las Terrañas, has a small town feel that places like Juan Dolio, Punta Cana, or Puerto Plata can´t even touch. I have come to learn that I live for the weekends, and I am pretty sure that is the only way I will survive my time down here. Don't get me wrong, I am enjoying this internship. But it is not easy living in a country where you don't understand the language.

True fact: I speak Spanish, not Dominican.

Beyond the language barrier, working with the poor is a difficult and arduous task. The monumental responsibility to organize and lead thousands of illiterate, uneducated, but willful people is tiresome and daunting. I have realized (and maybe even mentioned in this blog once before) that it takes a special person to do this type of an internship. And again I don't mean to lift myself up on a pedastle, for there are certainly days I would much rather retreat to my air conditioned basement back in Maryland and enjoy the US's draw against England with a nice angus burger (Note: I hate McDonalds and I detest this current "Angus" craze) than sit here in an office receiving a blast of air in rhythmic timings of ten seconds as a fan designed for a closet attempts to keep the air circulating.

But this post isn't about me. It is about the Domincans that work in this office. As difficult as it is for us interns here, or for the few ex-pats down here right now, none of our struggles or experiences here can surmount to any comparison to the employees of Esperanza. We are here for but three months, the ex-pats perhaps a year or two. But imagine if your job for the next 15 years was to work with the poor by providing capital to the most unstable of lives in this world; to try and provide order in a sector of the global economy that has been under the reign of chaos for thousands of years.

Consider the differences. A man working in Washington DC knows that each morning a train leaves the Shady Grove Metro Station about every 10 minutes. The ride will take him 45 minutes to reach Union Station to where he then has but a three block walk to his office. Allowing an extra three minutes for traffic lights, he can assume that his commute will take about an hour. He then enters his office and commences nine hours of work at his desk. His return journey will be the same.

Employees of Esperanza have to wait for clients that are coming to meetings by car, foot, bus, or bike. They have to hope that they all have their money and that they all show up. The amount of patience they must show, especially with so many variables that can throw off any attempt of order and consistency, is astounding. But perhaps what is more amazing is the amount of order these banks can obtain. Success rates on these loans is astoundingly high. People are surprised mainly because these loans go to "poor people" and their assumption is that they are uneducated and illiterate and therefore unable to appear every two weeks and pay a sum of money they have been told (and explained) to pay. Lets be honest, four year olds can do that.

No, I am not surpised by the fact that these are "poor people" that are repaying loans better than Americans. I am surprised at that these are people who have created some sort of stability in their world where the only certainty they had was that things were uncertain. They have been able to overcome shortcomings, downfalls, outages, sicknesses, unreliabilty, and more to create one more normalcy to their lives. They know things are uncertain, but they also know that every 14 days they must make a payment to Esperanza.

This is why microfinance works. And this is why microfinance works so well with the Christian faith. Christ needs to be our Certainty, our normalcy, and our routine. As my devotion said today, based on John 15:4, we must abide in Him.

"Nor can you bear fruit unless you abide in me"

Ironically enough, Americans have just as much instability in their lives as Dominicans do. It just isn't as noticable as a car breaking down or a power outage. We all can learn from these men and women who have taken a loan out and found stability. Just as they have learned to trust in Esperanza through trusting and lasting relationships with these loan officers, so we must learn to trust and last in our relationship with Christ. We must abide in Him.

Soy El Rey

I am King

King of whom? Or what, I suppose is a better question. Ironically enough, I started this blog off with the understanding that I would need to rely on God during this internship. And yet here I am recognizing and confessing my failure to take this understanding to heart. Today during one of the biweekly meetings I attended (yet again to take photos with the camera I always seem to forget) I noticed a peculiar site. Admist the rather boisterous crowd of women in the back of a metal works shop was graffiti written on the suit-crusted wall, darker in color than it should be from the dirt and grime of years of hard labor in this shop. Well, actually there were a few artworks of graffiti layered over one another, but the one that stuck out to me, or rather the one I understood immedietely, proudly stated: SOY EL REY.

I am King. It honestly didn't mean much at the time, beyond the fact that I was proud I understood it. However, this elated feeling quickly passed once I realized a four year old Dominican could understand this sentance. But that is just it. At lunch I left the meal a little early. I am tired of the rice, the chicken, the bland flavors (no hot sauce? I miss Mexico!), the poverty, the heat, and the long work days. And I am tired of being sick, this darn cold has got to go..


And so I journaled, complaining to myself at just how horrible my life was, when the realization that I still had 9 weeks to go hit me. And while I didn't freak, I did start to wonder if this was me telling myself I wasn´t able to complete this internship.

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

Then my reading from My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers came to mind. The reading today was from Matthew 11:28. Honestly, this is such a typical passage, and when I first read it I thought to myself that perhaps Ozzie had just needed an easy devo to write for today, so he chose this passage. I mean, how many sermons have we heard on this? The reality is that no, he meant it because in his own life he needed the proper "rest." And while maybe his rest wasn´t while he was in the DR, he understood the need to rely on God.

Soy El Rey

The fact is that God is King, like it or not. Personally, that means those times I don't think I can force another bite of bland rice down my throat again without my stomach bursting over from pounds and pounds of carbohydrates; or when I realize that I am poor for the summer in many ways, is when I must relinquish control over to God.

But it also means this, God is King of all things created. Me, my anger, my selfishness, this office, and even Leonardo, the man that lives in the neighborhood near the office and loves to share with me the words in English he knows. But He also created that shanty, hidden below a bridge in downtown Santiago. Where wooden walls are propped up against one another and the bank of the river is no longer dirt but bottles and paper. That is His kingdom too, and He rules over it just as much as He rules over my emotions.

Honestly, this understanding incites me more, but perhaps anger isn't necessarily a bad thing. I must, however, give control of it over to the King.

Soy El Rey

Another day, another meeting

Good Morning!

Once again, I woke up with the plan to go to a few more meetings. These were the usual bi-weekly meetings where the loan officer heads out and collects the payments. Each loan with Esperanza lasts 6 months and consists of 12 payments, thus every 14 days the associates (as Esperanza calls them) must meet and make their payments. The payments include interest and a required amount for savings and if they want, they can choose to save extra. Today was a bit different, as I went out with Robert again on his bike. Only this time we headed pretty far out of the city up the side of the mountain. It was fine until at one point Robert slows down and turns onto this.. lets call it a clearing. It wasn´t even really a dirt road what with all the rocks strewn across it. It did a little dance with a river flowing down the side of the mountain as the two criss-crossed each other over and over again as they wound down the mountain. Unfortunately, we had to go up first, and it took us a good 15 minutes to get to the meeting which was probably only a half mile up the mountain. We had to stop 3 or 4 times because either the bike lost grip on the muddy bank or it was just safer for me to cross the river over rocks than on the back of Robert´s bike. We were stopped at one point because the bank of the river was too narrow for us and 25 cows to both pass thorough, but needless to say we eventually got to our destination. There, about 5 women were working on sewing children's dresses. Slowly but surely (we got there about 20 minutes early) the rest of the members showed up, 19 in all. Only one was missing, which is quite impressive for this area, seeing as how tough it is to get around (they all came to the meeting by foot) and for the group size. I have been to meetings in apartment complexes, where the most anyone walks is two flights of stairs, where all but 5 of 15 members don´t show.

The meeting went well, I got my two interviews done, and once we were finished we were off to another meeting where I did one more interview. We came back to the office where I worked on a few loose ends for past stories (for the first week I screwed up some of the interviews, like forgetting my camera or not writing down which loan I was interviewing for and now I am trying to fix that all...) and then headed off for lunch. Now, I will write the three stories I got today, do a few more loose ends and then prepare for tomorrow. Below are photos from the day.

The road we drove on

Women sewing dresses