In the morning, I wake up to the rooster crowing and the insects chirping.

Phoebe makes breakfast while

Mairead and I review the plan for the childrens camp we run in a small community located in the
Dominican Republic. Camp starts at 9:00 and we are off on our bicycles by 8:40. We bike down the rocky
path to the main road in glorious morning silence.

The peaceful silence ends when we hit the road. Immediately, motorcycles and cars pass us and honk to
signal their approval. We pass the colmados where they shout I love you and Mami, ven aca. We go
by houses with small children where they yell Americanos! Americanos! We bike by the baseball field
during the baseball teams morning practice and are met with sssssst, ssssst, the classic catcall. Theres
the men sitting in the plastic chairs, the roadside vendors, and even some of our campers who hiss at us.
The list could go on. Passing through the community, I simultaneously feel like some sort of strange
princess waving to her people and like a foreign creature being picked apart. My response so far has been
to not acknowledge them, tell them my name is Carla or to laugh at how absurd my experience seems
to me.

Friendly greetings in the Dominican Republic are part of the culture. At times, this can be very welcoming.
Smiling at strangers and saying Buen Da or Saludos to whoever we encounter creates a warm and
positive environment for the community. However, the friendliness turns into something different when
it becomes constant catcalls and stereotyping based on our white skin.

The most frequent reaction is when kids yell Americanos! Americanos! Initially I was taken aback by
being identified as American by children I had never met before. I soon realized it was because of my
white skin and maybe because American visitors are common here. The kids assume from our skin color
that we are Americans, without realizing all Americans are not white. At first, we waved and smiled at the
children. Mostly, we were so surprised that being friendly seemed like the best thing to do.

Overall, these experiences make me question my own response to the children that we meet and the
catcalls we encounter. On one hand, by waving at children or laughing at the catcalls, I am being friendly
and carefree. On another hand, I am acknowledging some sort of authority and enforcing the preexisting
ideas about whiteness. And I do not want to encourage the idea that all Americans have white skin.
Instead of being known as Americanos or Mami, I want to be known by my name. And so I continue
to tell the kids to call me Carla. I continue to learn more about what the people think about beauty
standards and race. I continue to strive towards an exchange of culture where Dominicans learn about my
experiences and I learn about theirs.