Last night, I woke up to someone tapping on my bedroom window. I slowly peeled open my still heavy eyelids to hear my early morning visitor tell me that Rafael’s mom had just passed away.
I climbed out of bed, threw on the first clothes that I could find and walked across the street. Rafael, the closest thing to a Dominican father that I think anyone could find, was standing in the street, arms open for a hug and as tears began to stream down his face, said, “Gray, my mother is gone”.
It was just after 4am but people from around the community had already begun to trickle in. We all sat around the house, drinking ginger tea trying to warm ourselves up from a cold morning, only found in the mountains on this island, and waited for the priest to arrive.
Just past 6am, the sun began to rise and one of my favorite doñas and I set out to make flower arrangements to decorate the house. It is dry this time of year and flowers are harder to come by but as we passed farmers waking up to go to the fields, they encouraged us to go to their houses to pluck the fresh blooms.
As we arrived back to the house, flower arrangements in hand, we quickly fell into spots in the kitchen to begin cooking breakfast and lunch for upwards of a hundred people who would inevitably come to show their support. It took me awhile to be allowed on cooking duty and although I’m still only allowed at the seasoning station—cutting garlic, onions, cilantro and celery—it feels nice to have a spot amongst my doñas.
I can’t tell you how many velorios (funerals) I have been to during my two years in this country but to give you an idea, I’ve been to three this week alone. I used to wonder whether more people die in this country but realize now that it comes from living in a small town where everyone knows each other and from a Dominican saying that roughly translates to, “today for you, tomorrow for me.”
There is something beautiful about funerals in the Dominican Republic. A death here means a community event, supporting the family for nine days after they die. Once someone dies, they are placed in a casket and set in the middle of the sala (den) with candles, plastic chairs and family members audibly weeping around them. People with such limited resources come together to support their neighbors and make sure that the family is prepared to receive 100 plus visitors. Marianela is always the person who gets the flowers, Maritza is in charge of the cooking, Elcida keeps the coffee flowing, Pimpo buys the bags of ice (bodies are not embalmed here so bags of ice have to be placed below the casket to keep it from smelling before it is buried), my youth are the pall bearers and Rafael takes all of the bodies to the cemetery.
It took me awhile to feel useful at velorios and for my town to recognize that they didn’t need to host me while I was there to comfort them. Although I still dread going to every funeral that I attend, I’ve learned the importance of cumplir-ing (the idea that everyone in the town must show up to support) and just being there for my community.