By Eleanor Beyreis, PiLA Fellow, Mariposa DR Foundation, Dominican Republic on
It’s 10:15 in the morning. I’m struggling to squeeze a swim cap over a reluctant ponytail. Although my students are dry, I’m soaked from the previous class, which makes the task more difficult. One student, already capped and ready to go, stands by the pool watching. “Profe,” she asks me, “¿tú tienes hijos?/ Teacher, do you have kids?” I pause and turn to her, a green cap suspended in a dramatic stretch in my hands. “Hijos? No, no tengo./ Kids? No, I don’t have any.” She continues studying me as I snap the cap into place. “Pero pareces como una mujer/ But you look like a woman.” I look down and notice my rash guard clinging to my skin, outlining my body more than usual. “Sí, yo soy una mujer/ Yes, I’m a woman,” I tell her. “I’m 22 years old.” I choose a new latex adversary while she ponders this, confused. “Pero… tú eres una mujer, y tú no tienes hijos…/ But you’re a woman, and you don’t have any kids…”
This brief conversation is a window into the heart of my work at the Mariposa DR Foundation, an educational program for girls in Cabarete. Although my days begin with teaching music, English, and yoga, most of the time they include volleyball, first aid, impromptu dance parties, and questions about womanhood and bodies. At first, I was taken aback by the questions I received, particularly the ones about my own body. I couldn’t help wondering, isn’t there a different space for talking about this with someone who has more experience? I’ve since learned that, in some ways, the answer is no. Sex education in schools in the Dominican Republic is not comprehensive, leaving girls with unanswered questions about their bodies. Pregnancy before the age of 18 is common, and by the onset of puberty, girls are seen as women in the community. The fact that students feel comfortable speaking about bodies and womanhood at Mariposa shows that they are in a safe environment where they feel they will be given helpful, useful information. Still, days later, I had lingering questions about the aforementioned poolside interview, like why do some of my students see womanhood and motherhood as almost identical, and why was my own body a part of the conversation?
My first resource in moments of confusion is often my coworkers, and this was no exception. They spoke about our students growing up seeing many young mothers in their community and forming expectations that their paths to adulthood would be the same. They encouraged me to share success stories from other students and community members, showing the multitude of pathways available to young women. And, one colleague added, we begin that work almost without knowing it. As women working with girls, our bodies are always being observed. This attention can be uncomfortable, but it’s also an opportunity to model self-compassion and to celebrate our own definitions of womanhood.
I was intrigued by this perspective. However, I also had some reservations; when I began my fellowship, I had expected to be a role model in the way I thought my elementary teachers had been for me when they modeled how to be kind or not to give up on new challenges. But modeling how to treat one’s body with respect or what it means to me to be a strong woman, that was uncharted territory. I felt that my own idea of womanhood was tied to my cultural context and experiences, which appeared to be quite different from that of my students. We’ve often heard of Western cultures applying their ideologies to Latin American communities without considering the cultural context, particularly in education. Similarly, I was afraid that my position in my students’ community as an outsider would lead me to be a mismatched and unhelpful role model at best.
As I sat with this, I started to pay more attention to the information I received about my own female body in the Dominican Republic. I’ve noticed that the color of my skin, the way I do (or don’t do) my hair, the foods I can’t eat due to an autoimmune disease, and the way I speak are all pieces of information about my culture and background. At first glance, these things create distance between me and the community I live and work in. But there are so many ways that I can choose to close that distance—although I have an accent, I can choose to speak in Spanish or attempt to use my slowly growing vocabulary of Haitian Creole. I can’t always share a casual meal at someone’s house, but I can appreciate their hospitality and fill up on shared presence. And I may not look like my students, but I can groove with them; one of our first moments of connection early on was when they discovered with surprise that I knew how to bachata, that we could both find joy in twirling to the distinctly Dominican 8-count rhythm. Now, don’t get me wrong, some days they tell me I dance like a goofball clown, but the shared love of movement never fails to bring us closer.
I’ve had many more spontaneous conversations about adulthood since that morning, and I will continue to do so as the year goes on. I’ve learned that sometimes I’m not the best resource for a student, and it’s better to connect her with another teacher, but there are also moments where my position allows me to offer a perspective that she otherwise may not have encountered. Even in moments when I’m missing a piece of cultural context or I'm in the middle of wrestling with a swim cap, I find that as a teacher, leading with compassion is far more important than having all the answers.