As I mentioned in my previous DR Motherland article, everyone in the Dominican Republic who is middle class or higher (and classes are very obvious there) has domestic help. When I lived there, we had someone who cleaned our house and someone who washed our clothes by hand, since back then washing machines weren't the norm in homes.  I also mentioned that the word "negra" is often used as a term of endearment, yet there isn't a bone in my body that would ever use it as such.

Even though I lived in DR until I was seven and spent all of my summers there while I was growing up, I have never gotten used to having an "Alice" to our Brady Bunch.  Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't mind having someone come clean my apartment once a week if I could afford it, but for some reason the domestic help in my country highlights the differences between the 'haves' and 'have nots' in ways that are heartbreaking at times.

When we first moved to this country we stopped being middle class and became working class.  My mom worked as a housekeeper and my dad worked in a gas station until we slowly worked our way to the middle two-car-in-the-driveway class. I say this because I feel that that dream isn't always  possible in my little country.  Sure, there has to be a story or two of a domestic worker who put herself through school and worked her way to the point of having a domestic of her own, all while still living in DR.  If you tell me a domestic moved to the U.S and acquired that, I wouldn't be surprised. This is where we migrate to realize our dreams, and why we leave everything we've ever known to come here and work in gas stations with the hope of one day becoming the manager, and eventually owning our own station.

In Dominican Republic, most domestics are the Dominicans with darker skin.  They are poor, uneducated and have no other option but to move to the big cities like Santo Domingo and Santiago to support themselves and their families.  I had huge issues with the fact that when people were complimenting the young woman who works at my aunt's house, they would say things like "esa negrita es tan especial" or "que linda es esa negra."  Why did they have to refer to her skin color? Why did she assume she had to address me with the formal 'usted' instead of 'tu'? I nipped that right away and told her I was no different or better than her and she better call me 'tu.' And 'usted' makes me feel old.

When I was a little girl In New York City and had a day off from school, I'd go to work with my mother to the Upper West and East Sides to one of the many beautiful, huge pre-war apartments she cleaned. One summer my mother had a dinner party for all of her employers, she opened our modest basement apartment in Queens to these people and they ALL came, baring gifts and never once acting as if they were better than us or like coming to Queens was a major issue. They mingled and probably did a little networking as well. I learned so much that day, not only about the pride my mother took in the work she did; about how much she was appreciated and now as I look back at that day as an adult I realize that a scene like that would never play out in my country.  The differences between the classes just won't allow it.  The 'haves' rarely want to know about the lives of the 'have nots.' This in many cases is very true in the United States, too, but most of the times it isn't that obvious.

I have dreams for my little slice of the island of Hispaniola. Most of those dreams involve a women's movement; a better relationship with Haiti (believe it or not, the earthquake has helped strengthen that relationship a bit); lower crime rates; a stronger economy; less mosquitos; and most of all, the blurring of the lines between the classes.