Check out that lawn. This was pre-chopiaring.
As with any other culture/country, things are often different from what you are accustomed to in your own culture/country. It is one of the greatest parts about the Peace Corps service–you get to experience and learn about a culture/country different from your own. A lot of times it is adventurous and fun but sometimes it is downright frustrating. I experienced the latter this week and I think it was a great learning experience for everyone, not to mention one of my proudest moments.
Let me give you some context: in my community ( I hate generalizing), women and men have more traditional roles–men do most or all hard labor and women take care of the house and children. The roles are a lot more rigid here then I am used to, and it can be incredibly frustrating for a person like me. You know, stubborn, sometimes too manly, independent, need-no-man type of person. Oh, you say that sounds like a feminist? I guess so…
Anyway, I live in a cute little house that has a HUGE yard. Since we don’t have lawnmowers here, in order to cut the lawn, the family can either pay someone to do it, or the man of the house does it. Well, since I had neither a man in my house or money, I decided to do it myself. But let me back up a bit because I am jumping ahead.
The term for cutting the lawn is chopiar which is interesting also the word used to say gold-digging. You know, a gold-digging woman. Why? I have no idea. To chopiar the lawn, a man takes a machete and literally cuts it manually with a machete. It is hard, laborious work, and clearly not what my community considers a women’s job. But last week, I was visiting Connie and Victoria and saw Connie, this young mother of three, chopiaring her patio and is I was inspired. I mean, truly inspired by her. Connie never ceases to amaze me–she is the health promoter that went to thirty interviews with me, all the while carrying in her arms her infant son as we walked miles. And her she was again doing this “man’s job” all the while wrangling three boys around. Sure, she probably could have waited for her husband to do it, but she just did it herself, I’m not sure why. A I watched her, I thought “Wow, I can do that”. She made me feel as though I could do it too. I have never felt inspired by someone really before, but she inspired me with her quiet strength that had me in awe.
So, a few days later, I decided to at least to attempt it. I have never done anything like it before and I didn’t even have a machete, I had to ask Papa to use his, which he grudgingly gave me and made me promise not to cut myself (I smile and said I promised, of course). My Mama just thought I was crazy and actually laughed. This would turn out to be common reaction by people as they saw me carry the machete to my house to cut my lawn.
I tied up my hair, slapped on a hat, and in the midday heat, I got to work. For four hours, I labored and thought I would die, but I am stubborn, remember, so I kept going. I had to take a million brakes, and I had to duct tape my fingers from blisters, but I kept going. People walking by watched in shock at me doing it, but I kept going. People commented, laughed, told em to stop, told me I was crazy, but I kept going. The ants tore my feet apart and my body went numb, but I kept going. I kept thinking of Connie, and how stupid it was that people thought a woman couldn’t do this, and it kept me going. For four hours, I swung that stupid machete that was getting duller and duller after ever swing, and the closer I got to my goal, the more exhilarated I felt. It was incredible. I had no idea what I was doing but after an hour, it just became natural. There is not much to it, and once you get the swing, you can just keep going. I was slow, clumsy, and had to constantly take breaks, but after four grueling hours, I had reached my goal.
Day 3: Right Hand. Still Swollen, Still couldn’t bend my fingers, but my blister is not so disgusting looking.
I felt incredible. It was the most rewarding moment I think I have had in a long time and I have never felt so proud of myself. Sure, I tore up my right hand, and for days I wouldn’t be able to bend my fingers because they would be so swollen and sore, but I did it. When people looked at my torn hand in disgust and shock and lectured me on why I should not do a man’s job, I just smiled and proudly showed off my hands like they were great battle scars. People can’t understand why I would do it and why I am so happy about it, but I think that maybe I have gained a little more respect. Of course, Papa lectured me on how I can’t do it because it’s not a “woman’s job” to which I told him I never knew there were jobs just for me and jobs just for woman. To me, I told him, there are just “jobs”. He harrumphed.
J showing off his skills. I looked prettier doing it (a total lie).
People keep asking me, “Why didn’t you just make J do it?” and the answer is that I am proud and stubborn and I needed to see if I could do it. I like knowing that I can do things on my own. Fortunately, when people start telling him how he should never have let me do it, he told them that he doesn’t let me do anything, I just do it and he is proud of me for it. At least one person supports me 😉
I felt really good about myself until J came the next day and did twice as much as I did in one hour, but really he had the advantage–this wasn’t his first time. And because he knows me fairly well now, he left me part of the lawn to do when my hand heals.
For now, when people ask me, “B, did you really chopiar your patio? Are you crazy?” I just say, “Yes, and next time I will do it faster”.
xoxo
B
Letters from the Dominican Republic 