Embarazada.

To North Americans, the word sounds like a mispronounced “embarrassed,” but to Dominicans, it sounds like a difficult fate.

I can remember her face, her name and her reaction. It still rushes over me with the clarity of cool water, even though the air was on fire that day. Esther had her baby on her hip, and she waited patiently as I took her urine sample, and dunked a test strip in it. 20 seconds never seemed longer in my entire life.

A few days earlier, I had flown into La Caberete, Dominican Republic with my youth group. We had volunteered with a preschool and helped rebuild a family’s house in the slums. Today, however, we were working with temporary medical clinics. I was particularly excited about this day because I have always wanted to pursue a profession in the medical field. They offered us volunteering positions in the “pharmacy” and translating for the doctors, among other things. My Spanish was weak compared to some of the other students, so I took a job that I thought would be fitting for me: a hands on, no translation required testing job. I didn’t know however, that it would include a pregnancy test.

Esther was my first “customer.” She had been with us before the clinic opened; she was the first one lined up for the free medical help. She was very tall, thin and had braided hair down to her waist. She was quiet and had trouble focusing her mind in the present. Her face was streaked with worry. I had cuddled and played with her baby a few moments earlier. My station was the first in the clinic, so everyone went through me first. Esther had provided her urine sample and her previously content face had turned into a worrisome, scrunched forehead. I attempted at some weak small talk while she waited for me to interpret that unassumingly decisive piece of paper. Her English was minimal, and my Spanish was marginal, at best. We didn’t get past the weather.

20 seconds was up.

I looked at the column of paper sticking out of that Dixie cup like a sinking skyscraper. I pulled it out and saw two pink lines. I didn’t know what to think. Since Esther was the first to go through the clinic, I hadn’t given anyone news like this, ever. I didn’t know if pregnancy was a celebrated event like it was in America. So, unsure of how to break the news to her, I timidly told her that she was “embarazada!”

It was an event that shook her world. She became distressed, and although I don’t remember the exact phrasing, I understood enough of her tear-filled Spanish to understand that she didn’t have enough food to feed another “boca,” or mouth. It floored me.

This event didn’t make headlines. It wasn’t a “world event” in any traditional way. But for me, it twisted the axel that mine had rotated on. I had never experienced such a raw event in person. Sure, I had read about ministries helping the hungry, and organizations helping the homeless. But never had I seen the effects of injustice so close to my own body.
This event led me on to think about the living conditions for women in the Dominican Republic. Did Esther have options? Was there birth control available for her? Did her husband provide for their family? What kind of education did she have access to?

I needed this event to realize that money is not what will make me happy. Helping others less fortunate fills me up, more than any paycheck ever could. After I came back from the trip, I was certain that I wanted to go back to that very city and help out with the Mariposa DR Foundation for a year after graduation. Then, I realized that to really improve the life of the women there, I needed to have more than arms and feet to help them. I need an education that will provide me the information and resources to open doors for them. But first, I need a door opened for me. I want to continue my research in college, studying medicine, especially for impoverished communities so that I can provide people like Esther with a better life.