I SAT DOWN in my over-warm kitchen in the Dominican Republic, slumped with exhaustion and almost in tears. “I can’t handle men shouting at me, and following me, and saying things to me, and staring at me,” I said to my neighbor, a local Dominican-Haitian woman.
I was shaken. Even a trip to the grocery store made me feel like I was shrinking in on myself. My neighbor nodded in sympathy but replied, “It doesn’t bother me at all, I’m used to it, it’s part of my culture, so I like it. But you aren’t used to it, I understand.”