22 Years in 72 Hours: Part I.
The last time I went to the Dominican Republic I was fifteen years old. It was my first time traveling there without adults. I was sent to spend my summer vacation with extended family and had no say in the matter. I had a relatively good time and came back to school feeling a bit more grown up and several shades darker than what the New York City sun could provide as a tan. That year was 2001. I came back home two days before the world-changing event of 9/11. That was twenty-two years ago.
Months ago my sister suggested we all take a family trip to the Dominican Republic for my grandmother’s 84th birthday. She would rent a villa for us to stay together and all we’d have to do is buy our plane tickets to get there. She said we’d only be staying for Labor Day weekend. Honestly, I didn’t want to go. My family traveled there in 2021 and my husband and I couldn’t go because our passports had just expired. I wouldn’t get one in time because of how backlogged the passport office was from covid. This time around I had no excuse. My passport was still expired (all my traveling these last couple of years has been domestic), but getting an appointment for a passport renewal would be a bit easier than before. Even though I still didn’t want to go, I figured it would be a great way to celebrate my grandmother after all she went through with her broken hip earlier this year.
In true Cruz fashion, we waited till the last moment to get the appointments for our passports and were given one for the day before we left. We got our passports 24 hours before we boarded the plane. Deep down inside I kept thinking that something would make this trip fall through at the last minute so I wouldn’t have to go but we woke up on time and our flight was not delayed.
Arrival.
I got off the plane and was taken aback by how many foreigners (White Americans) were visiting the country. One thing that didn’t change was the cheerful clapping from Dominican passengers when the wheels of the plane landed on the tarmac.
Walking to the taxi I could already feel the heat bearing down on my unkempt fro. I was finally here. A toil of emotions was bubbling inside but I didn’t want to let it show. Our hour-and-a-half ride to the villa felt like 30 minutes as I soaked in the sights out of the window. Everything seemed the same but also different. The roads were new and paved, but there were still motoconchos (motorbike taxis) and dilapidated buildings on the side of the roads. The ocean still bore memories of the last time I had swam in its waters and laid in the sand.
You may be wondering why I haven’t been to this country in over two decades and it’s not an easy answer for me to give. I spent almost every summer of my childhood in the Dominican Republic. So many of my core memories are from this country that now seems so foreign to me. As I grew into my young adult years I struggled with my identity. I never felt Dominican enough because I didn’t “look” Dominican (as I was told so often) and I was second generation American which isn’t the norm. My grandparents came in the very early 60s when there were barely any Dominicans in the United States.
In my late twenties and early thirties, I set out to decolonize myself. I stopped chemically straightening my hair, read more unlearned history, started challenging the status quo in my everyday life, and finally took the first step in embracing my whole identity by not only calling myself “Afro Latina”, but by calling myself a Black Dominican woman.
Racism and colorism unfortunately reach far and go hand in hand on the island. So many of my experiences that made me question my identity were spurred by racist interactions with other fellow Dominicans. If you haven’t tuned into the news lately the situation between Haiti and DR is grim. Anti-Haitian and anti-Black rhetoric have created laws stripping Haitians who were born in the Dominican Republic from their national identities. Haitians who have lived for generations on the other side have been ousted from their homes and deported to Haiti.
This apparent anti-Blackness has created a deep-seated sadness and distrust inside of me. How could I visit a place that treats people who look exactly like themselves - like me - like that? The better question is why would I want to visit a place like that? As I grow older, I am less afraid of calling bullshit on things that don’t sit well in my soul. It may sound self-righteous, but I honestly try to do better and be better if I can and when I can. Once I started writing my cookbook I knew I would eventually have to visit my homeland, but I could bide my time before going. Never thought it would be so soon. Definitely not this year and definitely not now.
Casa de Campo.
I had never stayed in a hotel or resort on the island so this was a first. We stayed at the super exclusive Casa de Campo resort. This resort is literally an entire town of private villas and hotels. Everyone owns a golf cart to get around. The rich elite including many celebrities own homes in this manicured enclave. Just to get inside you have to present your passport, be on the list, and answer a million questions.
The house was beautiful and came with three staff members who cooked, cleaned the house, and were at your beck and call. The house manager constantly asks if everything is okay or if you need another piña colada. Perhaps other people enjoy having staff serve you anything you could possibly imagine and basically stay out of sight until you whisper their name, but it didn’t sit well with me. I grew up poor and the only “servants” I ever saw were in Mexican telenovelas so having people do my laundry the moment I took off a sweaty shirt or wet towel from the pool was mind-boggling.
My sister was friends with the staff because she’s rented this exact villa several other times now. She always invited them to eat with us and chats with them often via WhatsApp. They absolutely adored her because they had never had the house owners or any people who rented the villa be so kind and generous with them. The house cook who has been with the family who owns the villa for twenty years had never been asked to come and eat with them. My sister said she cried the first time she ate at the table with my family in 2021 because she felt seen.
Driving around the town at 20 mph we saw wealth on another level. Yachts, pimped out golf carts, foreign vintage cars in driveways, and houses that look like something out of a movie. I felt weird and out of place. One thing that I saw a few times that bothered me were women dressed in stereotypical French maid uniforms. The white crisp aprons over black knee-length dresses and small white bonnets atop their heads. I would see them walking with small lunch bags on the side of the road to the staff bus stop that seemed miles away as people whizzed by in their golf carts without a care in the world. The uniforms made me cringe. How deeply colonial and unsettling I thought to myself. Our staff wore different colored scrubs, which bothered me a bit, but I understood that they had a certain “decorum” that they had to uphold. As they constantly reminded me when I told them to sit down that it was their job to serve.
We celebrated my grandmother with a cake baked by the house cook. She made the most delicious tres leche cake I’ve ever had in my life. She said the trick to a good tres leches cake is to let it stay in the refrigerator until it’s going to be served so it doesn’t become soggy. My grandma’s dementia and lapse of memory made it hard for her to remember it was even her birthday or why we were in DR in the first place, but she seemed content all the same. We sang a raucous happy birthday in Spanish and sat together (staff included) eating cake while she ate several slices smiling.
Cook. Eat. Repeat.
Natalie 💗✨
This was interesting to read. Knowing how out of place you feel in a place that does not respect who you are. A place that is in fact your heritage. It’s unsettling. I am just happy that you know who you are. That’s the most important part. Knowing and loving who you are. And similar applies here in the U.K. and even across Africa where those who look after the home are ousted like they are from another planet or as lesser humans. I have always found it quite strange. Mistreating fellow humans and also those who look after you. Foolish indeed. Enjoyed your story darling! Thanks for sharing.