After I turned seven years old, most of my childhood was marked by constant movement between the Dominican Republic and the U.S. In 2007 I spent only the summer in the States and returned to the island for about a year. On November 9, 2008, I returned to the U.S. papi asked me if I wanted to stay for real this time, I gave a reluctant sí, 'cause you know, I was only supposed to stay for two weeks and I didn't want to break to mami, and that settled it. I didn't go back to the island until February 2015, but that's another story.
During that year between 2007-2008, I met a little girl named Anita who had moved from Haiti to the D.R. with her mom when she was a baby. She worked as a street peanut vendor and like most Haitian children living in the Dominican Republic, didn't go to school. I was probably watching television when I heard her yell "maní to'tao'!". I ran to my room and got my glistening, new RD$10 peso coin which had been recently introduced as a replacement for the RD$10 paper bill.
Maní, ven aca! I called for her from the front porch.
I was always fascinated by the way these women and children were able to balance 30lbs of aguacate weight in wash-up bowls on their heads, that were only separated from their craniums by raggedy towels.
She approached me with the easy gait of a doña who's seen too much of the world and could care less about the present.
I bought two salted, roasted peanut bags 'cause I knew I was gonna have to share with my nephew and little sister (especially).
Anita was short, skinny, had a long skinny nose, and a Sudanese black complexion.
Como tu te llama'?
Cuanto año' tu tiene'? (Diache look at how chiquita, look at how flaquita she is)
She told me she was ten years old and wiped the sweat from her upper lip before handing me my two peanut bags.
Tu quiere' un chin de agua? I offered.
There were no adults in the house, so I took the liberty of opening the door to let her in. She put the wash-up bowl with the peanuts on one side of the rocking chair in the porch and swallowed the water in big gulps.
I asked her to play a game of Vice City with me, but she said she didn't know how to play and that she had to go and sell her peanuts.
Y tu mamá? I asked, "Why doesn't she sell them?"
"She's home" was all she said.
After that, Anita stopped by to say hi more frequently, and I introduced her to mami and my sisters.
We offered her to sit at the table and eat with us, and although she was ravenous, it was like we had to beg her.
One time she showed up when I was playing el topao' with the boys in front of my house.
We had a brief conversation and I asked her to join the game. She looked at them and said, "Yo me tiene que ir".
When she left Gary approached me and asked me if she was my sister, knowing damn well who my sisters were.
"Tu tiene' una hermana haitiana? Jasaura tiene una hermana haitiana!"
He started mocking me and accused me of having a Haitian sister.
I shrugged, told him that she was my cousin and picked up a rock to throw at his big ass head.
I came to the U.S. a few months later, to stay.
Some people talk of a little Haitian girl who was raped and murdered by the beach.
Some people say she is still selling her peanuts.
Yo no sé de Anita, pero ella era mi amiga.
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