Dreaming in Dominican

The sun was pouring in through the small holes of the tin ceiling, sending in small waves of heat which announced the hot, sticky day that was soon to begin. I looked up at the ceiling for what felt like hours imagining what it would be like to sleep on top of there instead of being crammed in between my mother, and sister on this full size bed that with each movement begged for our heavy bodies to get up.

"Would it be cool up there?" I thought as I traced the patterns on the worn out mosquitero (mosquito net) that supposedly protected us from mosquitos, but I somehow woke up with fresh bites around my limbs every morning. "I would sure have enough space to stretch my arms," I giggled to myself.

I was always the first one to wake up. It was the only time of the day where everything was quiet, and cool. After 9 am the sun would be scorching, and Sabana Perdida would rapidly come alive. Every speaker in town would be blasting with Dembow and Merengue, the platanero would be making his rounds boasting, "Los platanos, los platanos, compren sus platanos. 10 por 50 pesos! Se acaban rapidooo!" and my grandmother would waste no time in assigning me my chores. (The plantains, the plantains, buy your plantains. 10 for 50 pesos! They're gonna go fast!)

"Milele! Ve has me este manadado al colmado mi niña," she'd exclaim from her tiny kitchen. (Milele! Go run this errand at the bodega for me my darling).

“Si mama,'' I'd say without protest as I greedily gulped down the glass of guava juice and huveos con salami she’d placed on the counter for me.

I enjoy my walks to the bodega. Along the way I get to see my best friend, Belkys, and we play a quick game of Mermelada de Cereza. I also get to pet the goats and chickens in her backyard, but I have to hurry. My grandma would freak out if she saw me petting them after I’ve already bathed.

“Las niñas lindas no se ponen a ensusiarse. Somos pobres pero finas!” she’d always whisper as she combed my hair. (Pretty girls don’t get their hands dirty. We may be poor but we’re classy!) But, this never made sense to me. I just wanted to have fun, who cared about being rich or poor? As far as I knew, we had everything we needed. I had my best friends next door, my uncle always gave me five pesos for ice cream, and I was always running to the bodega to grab something for mama...the bodega! I’m instantly reminded that I have to hurry.

“Vengo ahora, déjame ir a este mandado!” (I’ll be back later, let me go run this errand) I hastily say to Belkys as I dash for the door. I’m gone before she can utter a word.

It’s uniquely hot today. The sidewalk, which is usually a deep shade of tan, looks almost white as if it were thirsty. I can feel my chanclas melting into my feet with every step I take. That doesn’t stop anybody from being outside though. The old men are faithfully gathered at their table, wearing their felt hats and guayabera shirts playing domino. The women are out and about, rollos in their hair, infants at their hip, bringing coffee and bread to their comadres (their girlfriends).

“Capicúa coño!” (Domino, damn it!) I hear Don Joselo shout as I cross the street. He has a reputation for being a bit overly competitive, but he’s nice. He gives all the kids their Tres Reyes (3 Kings) during Christmas, and last year he gave me a chichigua (kite) shaped like a butterfly. I guess everyone knows I wish I could fly.

The closer I get to the bodega, the louder it gets. The motorcycle engines are all revving in a deafening harmony, and Antony Santos is on his last verse of, “Medicina de Amor.” However, I joyfully welcome the noise, because with it comes the promise of the shelter the sky scraping palm trees provide.

“Por fin una sombrita,” (At last, some shade) I say to myself.

“Senorita, digame, que necesita?” (Young lady, how can I help you?) Dona Minerva says flatly as I approach the counter.

“Bue-buen dia doña! Mama me mando a buscar un mandado...” (Goo-good morning m'am. My nana sent me to run an errand) I reply as I nervously play with my pigtails. She plainly nods as she waits for me to continue.

“Dos sobres de mistolin. Una botellita de Clorox. 20 pesos de leche. Cuatro sobres de cafe, y 10 pesos de azucar. Ah, y una recarga Claro de 50 pesos!” (Two packs of Mistolin, a small bottle of Clorox. 20 pesos of milk. 4 packets of coffee, and 10 pesos of sugar. Oh, and 50 pesos worth of minutes for a Claro cell phone!) I sing. I’m good at remembering this stuff.

“130 pesos,” she says as she gathers my shopping bag for me, completely unimpressed.

“Gracias, tenga un buen dia!” (Thank you, have a lovely day!) I blurt out before she’s even had the chance to hand me the bag.

As I turn towards the door it's as if i've actually seen my city for the first time. It's busy and alive, with people gathering at every corner. Everyone is laughing and having a good time even though it's only 10 AM. The goats and cows are competing for who can be the loudest, but they're no match for the proud roosters. Not even the maxed out speakers can drown them out. The homes look humble, and the tin ceilings all have holes but the energy around Sabana Perdida makes them vibrant.

Yet, I can't help but wonder if everyone dreams about sleeping on the clouds like me?..