A growing connection with my host brother Miguel

My introduction to Miguel

I remember the first glance of Miguel, my host sister’s son. I read a lot in his short but meaningful look. His eyes were like pools of dark chocolate, swirling with curiosity and confusion. His brow furrowed, lips slightly parted as if caught between a frown and a question. I stood quietly as he took me in. I could see the cogs spinning in his 2-year-old mind, circling one silent question: who on earth is this gringa?

Each morning, as the sun spilled through the curtains, I greeted Miguel: “Hola Miguel, como tu ta?” I was still in my first months of service, during pre-service training, and my tongue clumsily danced with the foreign syllables of the Dominican accent I was trying to master.

His response was always the same. He burrowed his little face into his mami Darleney’s neck, his cheeks flushing as he denied my presence. She would tease him, “¿Dónde está Becca? (Where’s Becca)”? He’d pause for a moment, look up at her, and bolt in the opposite direction. “No te mira, no te mira,” (He doesn’t see you),” Darleney would laugh. It was true. He really didn’t. And he wasn’t the only one.

A new community

My pre-service training took place in a small, religious campo in the Monte Plata region. Community members were warm yet reserved, watching me from a polite distance. As I walked down the street on the way to school, everyone greeted me cordially, their clasped lips melting into smiles as I offered my saludos (hello). Yet there was still an unspoken boundary—a line not yet crossed. My words, usually a bridge to others, now stumbled and fell on ears that didn’t quite understand them. I was present, I was there, just not quite … seen. I understood their hesitation; I was an outsider—a stranger with good intentions, but nevertheless, an unfamiliar face.

Getting to know my host sister

Over the weeks, the kitchen became the place where Darleney and I began to get to know each other. On Thursday nights when I was running late from training and couldn’t make my host mom’s Jehovah’s Witness meetings, I found myself in the kitchen, usually cooking pollo guisado (chicken stew) or frying pork chops with papas fritas (fried potatoes).

Darleney is a whirlwind of energy and conversation. She chatters about everything and nothing, her words a melodious stream that don’t always require a response, just a smile. In the kitchen, we talked about everything from motherhood to first love to heartbreak to our favorite Shakira albums—actually, we’d fight about those. Amidst the aromas of cooking meat and potatoes, and under the flicker of the overhead light, I found a rhythm, a sense of belonging. I began to feel part of something familial, where I could see, and be seen.

Miguel gets bolder

Darleney and I became close quickly, but my connection with Miguel unfolded slowly. After weeks under his cautious observation—as I cooked with his mom or made bracelets with his cousins—he still avoided eye contact but began to come closer. He’d touch my knee as he dashed past me, sitting in the gallery, or shout “Boo!” at my door while I napped.

A fruitful encounter

One afternoon, during the hottest summer on record in the Dominican Republic, I sat outside, waiting for a breeze. I was peeling oranges on the porch. Sweet silence. Suddenly, a faint patter of footsteps behind me slowed a bit and then approached.

Miguel stood fascinated as I turned the bright orange skin of my fruit into a spiral that wound down and fell at his feet. Usually, he’d stop for a moment and then race away. This time he stayed. Small fingers reached for a piece of orange while the other hand clung to my knee for balance. Then, to my surprise, our eyes met and held. I separated the orange, handed him half, and then we sat together, sharing the fruit in silence. After that, he sought out my company regularly.

Friends

As training came to an end, I saw that Miguel was more confident, more outgoing. He no longer hid from me or avoided my gaze. He held my hand, sat with me on the balcony in la silla de Becca (Becca’s chair), his eyes filled with affection rather than wariness. We had come together, he and I, and found a connection that transcended language and culture. He saw me, and I him.