I measure the days by spitting on my thumb and tracing a path of black on my arm. Today I wrote the letter B. B for bad. The lady selling me water pointed to a hose.

I climb up a steep slope of black-rust mixed with broken glass. My feet anchor on patches of dying grass and long strings of old plastic bags, clouds of soot blowing in my face. Ignacio shouts my name and jokes, “Everyday, you look more like us… Soon we will have to dig to find your true color!”

What is he talking about, I thought?... Oh.

Blacker. I look blacker.

Later he unclasps his watch, and shows me his tan line, “This is what my skin really looks like. I’m darker now because I work in the sun all day picking this trash.” Somehow, I can sense, this should change my opinion of him. Another slap in the face. For I am beginning to understand: The whiter you are, the luckier you are. I hadn’t realized racism came in such precise shades of skin. The insidious tentacles of racist history yet had their hold, even the “75% mixed” population of the Dominican Republic. I told him to put his watch back on, unable to articulate my sorrowful disgust.

Ignacio leads me through the landfill, stooping for pieces of metal. Trash becomes more recognizable; cans, bottles, needles, boxes, plastic bags, dolls, telephones, shoes, mattress springs, plastic gallons, paper… it fades from being picked-through burned rubble to piles of steaming fresh trash. Today we stayed away from people, and unfortunately downwind of the fires.

During the interview, smoke billowed through, hiding Ignacio behind a windy curtain of grey. He looked as if he would disappear altogether, and I asked him, “So where do you see yourself in 10 years?”

After a long pause he said, “I’m standing on my grave.”

Vertadero "La Mosqua"; Cienfuegos, Santiago

Vertadero "La Mosqua"; Cienfuegos, Santiago

Vertadero "La Mosqua"; Cienfuegos, Santiago

Cienfuegos, Santiago

Cienfuegos, Santiago