By the time you read this, I’ll be more than halfway to the neighborhood from which my mother originates in Santo Domingo, DR. In said neighborhood, as in many neighborhoods, the impression us “Dominican-Americans” give off is that indeed we have more money than them, we are more well-off, and that we have greater access to said resources than do the people there. In many ways, it’s true. Most of the people born in the US hate to admit it, but as much as we want to be part of those people, we’ll never actually be them. We can play with them, socialize with them, knock back a couple with them, but the natives can smell it on us much the way other animals can sniff intruders. My presence is no more welcome here than any other tourist. I’m just more well-connected and am related by blood, a little difference, but I recognize it. (Thoughts like these make me wonder whether the movement to acclimate African-Americans or other people from the African Diaspora back into Africa would actually work on a mass scale. I’m still up in the air about that.)

Anyways, the one commonality I do see with my hood and the hood in Santo Domingo is the gentrification. Most of my avid readers know how I feel about it, thus there’s no need to rehash. But let’s dissect this for a bit. 4 years ago, when I came to visit Santo Domingo, the airport was painted in an earthy light brown, and a tipico (merengue) band played while we walked from the airplane to the baggage claim. Images of this country sprawled all along the way with little stores that made us feel like we, too, were Dominican citizens. Even the bell signaling the movement of the conveyor belts was replaced with a little merengue in the spirit of the country. Yes, I fully admit: too many bags got lost in the baggage claim, and the droves of men harassing begging us to let them drive us to our neighborhood was over the top. But when you walk out of baggage claim, the droves of people waiting at the edges of the walkway made you feel proud of your heritage, with whole blocks coming out to meet their distant relatives.

Nowadays, I’m not sure what to make of the changes. The government’s done a good job of renovating the airport, and as many New Yorkers can attest to, the department of tourism has definitely stepped up their efforts to promote the “good life” here. The walls are painted an off-white, with messages about the country along the walls in English, Spanish, and French (notice the order). The messages on the loudspeakers come in those same languages in that order. My bags didn’t get “lost” or delayed, but something was … missing. Was it the band, whose non-existence was palpable? Was it the multicultural crowd I ran into? I’m not sure yet, but …

I do know that Burger King infiltrated the skyline here, among other corporations. I do know that poor people who’ve never seen any European countries have been forced to learn 7 languages. I also know that when I arrive at the barrio, I’ll be confused at the lack of electricity when only a few hours before, I was at a resort that never ran out of electricity, much less plumbing, running water, and clean clothes. I would still like to gather more evidence of this new country that I thought was Dominican Republic, but if my own neighborhood is any indication, the so-called development and progress of this nation will be heavily reliant on how much stratification between the rich and the poor occur, and how far we can push poor people before they have to move to unfamiliar territory …

jose, who needed to get this in before he went out tonight …

p.s. - I just took a shower, and the water smells similar to what I think the Krusty Krab might smell like … if I could smell underwater.

If there is a will, there is a blog.

Mi gente, bienvenidos desde La Republica Dominicana! It’s a sunny day outside, about 30% chance of rain. Some cloudy skies, winds blowing in the NW direction. I’m sitting here in shorts and a tank top (something I don’t usually do) and relaxing. it’s been OK so far. Interesting how even when family members ask us to relax, their most natural behaviors prevent us from doing so (and by us, I mean my younger brother and I). We’ve been to 2 separate resorts in the past 24 hours, and will probably move some more through this 16-day excursion.

A few notes of interest:

Dominicans applauding on the airplane after a good landing into Santo Domingo: it never gets old.

I can still swim. Even while slightly inebriated. Thumbs up for me.

I finally caught Ratatouille last night. Aplauso!

In the middle of watching Shrek 2 and Ratatouille, they showed this music video by Akon feat. Snoop Dogg and Tego Calderon for “I Wanna Fuck Love You.” Honest to G_d, it made me squeamish, especially with kids around. Wouldn’t want my daughter to get the impression that wearing those booty shorts all in public like that is appropriate in every venue.

Last night, my brother and I went to this “dance hall” they have set up for the guests in this resort. We both looked at each other, with Presidentes in hand, and said, “We really miss our girlfriends.”

I can still call and recieve text messages from here, but no names come up when I get texted back. Weird.

Twitter has really taught me how to keep my notes short.

Feel free to let me know how all of you are doing. Google Reader is acting funny.

Lastly, my middle finger really is swollen! Curses! My first and second mosquito bites came right on the same finger, so the base of my left middle finger looks like it got hammered. One of these fingers is not like the others …

jose, who honest to goodness has some of his best written work to date up in my brain somewhere …

Excuse the double negative, my people, but a brotha’s got a little less patience for fools than usual.

Imagine me watching ESPN today, when I see a segment about 4-time All-Star (possibly more if not for the Jeter-A-Rod-Garciaparra collective from a few years back) and future Hall of Famer Miguel Tejada, now a member of the Houston Astros, but whose image has been tainted by the Mitchell Report for taking performance-enhancing drugs. Let’s assume that that’s all behind him; dude’s hitting .328 with 3 homeruns and 11 RBIs. In other words, still stellar numbers for this man. No Oriole, Astros, or A’s fan can deny him that.

He alleged he was 32 at the time of the interview. Just then, the interviewer has his original birth certificate from the Dominican government, and says, “I want you to explain this to me.” It turns out Miguel’s actually closer to 34 according to that document. Of course, Miguel felt embarrassed by the situation and left, then issued a public apology to the team and ownership for the little fib, but that’s not what bothers me. Frankly, what was ESPN thinking by trying to ridicule the crap out of him by giving him his original birth certificate on national television? There’s a fine line between real reporting and gossip-mongering, and I’d call this gossip-mongering.

Yes, Tejada lied. He was 19 when he was encouraged to tell scouts that he was 17, thinking knowing that teams wouldn’t take him if they didn’t see a lengthy future for him. A couple of decades later, we see how that young man’s become one of the more popular players in the league, a hard worker, and someone who made it far from the poverty many baseball players experience in Dominican Republic. Rather than make the interview an educational piece, possibly collaborating with Tejada to discuss the pressures of teenage youth in Central and South American countries to report lower ages, they bash the player and hold him responsible even when frankly no one else really cares, when his age really never gave him some performance-enhancing benefit, or when ESPN is a conduit for those behaviors of exploitation continue to occur.

But unfortunately, that’s what happens when people don’t speak to people directly. Today, I was confronted with similar situations, though not on public television, but in a forum I nonetheless expected a little professionalism. While I can’t go into specifics, I will say that we need to really reconsider what it means to conduct ourselves in a manner that’s consistent with the expectations we have for others. Therefore, there’s really no need to try and find out my nationality, who my girlfriend is, if I like you or not, or what I do with my private time unless it directly affects the work I’m doing, which I can assure anyone, it won’t. If I was a celebrity, then I’d have no problem seeing my picture all up on MzVirgo or NB, but I’m not. Regardless of whatever energies are thrown towards me, I’m nothing but a professional now. In my growth, no one should expect that this aspect of my career change.

Do I come to bat everyday? Yes. Do I have a blog that might get me in trouble? Sure, but I’m not scared. And no, I’ve never lied about my age, nor have I ever taken performance-enhancing drugs (though I can’t lie about a beer or two), but I can tell you that you should expect nothing but the best from me morning and afternoon when I come into work, 20-30 minutes early as usual. I’m not here to play those games at work. Can’t tell me nothin’ …

jose, who sees a wonderful opportunity to hit Washington DC next week …

edit: my bad COMPLETELY! there’s an ed carnival at The CEA Blog! Must give props …

On Friday, our grade / floor celebrated Dominican Independence Day / Black History Month, through a series of performances, from song and dance to Powerpoint slides and poetry (including yours truly.) I wasn’t bothered at all by the performances or even the more pro-Dominican stance the school usually takes. It’s ingrained nationalism, and perpetuated by their insular neighborhood (Washington Heights, if you must know). What that implicitly means is a denial of their African roots, an unfortunate side effect of the white supremacist agenda of Rafael Trujillo, thus creating an identity of anti-Black or “as close to white as possible.”

Then on the flip side, I went to an event on Little W. 12th St. sponsored by La Raza (which colloquially translates to “The People”) entitled “A Dominican-Haitian Invasion”, and naturally, I was insistent on going. The mix of African dance, merengue, salsa, and zouk made for a good evening. I even got to meet the guy who invited me there (shouts to Santiago, a talented artist in his own right), and we discussed the Dominican-Haitian divide in brief. What really got to me in this outset was the anti-Dominican sentiment in the crowd, particularly because so many Dominicans were there.

I’m not often a centrist, and don’t always believe in compromise, but this, once and for all, has to have some finality. How can two countries that reside on the same island and have such a thorough history still divide each other even when so many of the proletariat look like each other? Even if that wasn’t the case, I find it annoying, especially as a descendant of both countries, that these countries can’t find a means of coexisting without continuing the ignorance on both sides. Yes, many Dominicans would prefer to curse me out than acknowledge that they have African ancestry, but there’s also the part where, during Haitian rule, many of the matters between the two sides of the island were mismanaged by the Haitian government. What will Haitians say about that? There had to be something awry for the Dominicans to beg Spain to become a colony again, and we can’t just point the finger at white supremacy.

Whatever the case, I just think about those countries’ histories, and this country’s history, too, and wonder if we’ll ever reveal to our youth more of the truth and understanding behind the revolutions that existed, and not the idealistic and grandiose images we paint for our youth, so when independence day celebrations come around, they’re not simply yelling and cheering shallowly, but at least make informed decisions about what they’re truly proud of …

After this post, you would think I’d be done with analyzing portions of my background. Then Sunday arrived: the annual Dominican parade. I had a meeting I couldn’t cancel in a place I couldn’t avoid. I had questions I couldn’t avoid like “Are you going?” and “Why not?” and “What’s good with the girls?” They’re all very valid questions but …

It’s not that I hate parades. I like parades. I think. Well at least I thought I did. Then, I got a little knowledge, and for the life of me, I realized that more than 1/2 of the people in the Dominican Day parade had no reason to truly celebrate. After all, if they knew that Rafael Trujillo instilled Dominican pride by belittling their African roots and hence by killing Haitians, they might not be so loud and proud. If they knew that even to this day, Black Dominicans in Dominican Republic who wish to express themselves through their art and culture often get dismissed, stripped of funds, or told to “take that down.”

If they knew that the view people have about what Dominicans look like is as limited as the spaces they often travel. I know too many of mi gente that never leave their barrios, whether it be Bonao or the Heights, and only look at themselves as the standard for what it means to be Dominican when in fact, there’s no way to tell whether someone’s truly Dominican or not.

Then again, I see all these other parades for the Irish, Puerto Ricans, Columbians, Italians, Indians (and by that I mean people from India), West Indians, and a million other parades, and come to the fact that it’s cool to have a celebration just to have a celebration. Often, we lose sight of our culture because there’s this constant amalgamation in America. We incorporate other people’s foods and language at a rather steady rate, merging us into this stew pot of bits and pieces. Therefore, for many of us, it’s important to have these moments when people from the same or similar culture can have a time to celebrate what’s left and the progress they’ve made. It’s not self-segregation, but recognition of one’s ancestors.

Plus, one can make the case that the higher-ups in America would prefer to water down our culture in favor of assimilation into the more dominant culture (that’s easily seen in our schools, jobs, and everyday life). So instead of tearing some of these jerks a new hole for acting so pretentious, I just nodded and walked away, hoping information like this might infiltrate the subconscious of a people with transfigured roots …

jose

p.s. - By the way, I just wrote an article about Common’s recent rise to pop star. Common’s definitely not common …

I just got back from New Orleans, after a delay with the airport shuttle (taxis are so indispensable), a delayed flight from NO to Charlotte, and then another from there to NYC-LaGuardiA. I won’t even tell you the airline’s name, but I’m wary about doing business with them again after all of that. Fortunately, one of my greatest qualities is my patience, so I just said “f*** it” throughout the day.

Anyways, New Orleans, Louisiana was good. I mostly stayed in the French Quarter, about 2 blocks or so from Bourbon St. It’s good in the sense that I had a really good time and all the touristy stuff was within walking distance (for a New Yorker, that’s about a 2-3 mile radius). Yet, I felt weird because I was contributing to a part of the city that was left mostly untouched through the Katrina and subsequent Rita hurricanes.

As I walked through Bourbon St. that first night, I got a glimpse of the revival efforts made within the city. We saw some beautiful bands playing everything from jazz and funk to rock and country. I had Hurricanes, Hand Grenades, margaritas, Who’s To Blames, and other assorted drinks I can’t quite remember for some reason. It definitely reminded me of Dominican Republic in the architecture, smell, and candor, but just this time around, everyone spoke English and there were more blanquitos. Many more.

My traveling partner then said something out of the blue that really hit home. Upon looking some of the T-Shirts (”FEMA: Fix Everything My @$$,” “Evacuation Plan: Run, B****, Run,” and “I’m Here About The BlowJob” were some of the more prominent messages), she said, “Yeah it’s funny, but the sadness is still there. It’s still very sarcastic.”

As we rode on the Steamboat Natchez, we saw the lasting effects of that fateful August disaster. The announcer-narrator tried to sound objective throughout the tour, but he found it really hard to. He announced how the levees were still not fixed near the 9th Ward (Time Magazine recently re-confirmed that), the businesses were shutting down left and right, and boats weren’t pulling into their shores the way they used to. For some of the natives, that famous Southern hospitality was replaced with a “Where you from?” a hint in the hood for “You’re not from around here. Get out.” We got a lot of that from some of our own “people,” (whatever that means).

It didn’t matter the color of the person either; the people who ran the swamp tour went from 55,000 customers before Katrina to 15,000 last year. Walking down Canal Street gave me a strong sense of what I’d suspected all along; all the trees knocked down by the storm were used for boarding up all the (working class owned) businesses up and down the street.

With that said, though, I still felt rather optimistic for N’Awlins. I still remember the 544 Funky Club playing “Candy” (Cameo) and “Electric Boogie (Slide)” (Marcia Griffiths) with so much vigor. The bar right across played a rather rousing rendition of “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses. I ate some of the richest food I’ve ever had in the form of po’ boys, jumbalaya, gumbo, char grilled oysters, and hush puppies. My traveling partner didn’t have to do anything for her beads, and she even got a little trumpet rendition of “Isn’t She Lovely” by Stevie Wonder played for her. I still had a very positive experience in New Orleans.

For all the negativity that surrounds a catastrophic event like 9/11, Katrina, or a tsunami, the mark of a civilization’s death or life lies in the preservation (and not gentrification) of its culture.

Re Cover
Re Build
Re New Orleans …

jose, who got tired of wrestling alligators in the bayou …

What I omitted about my latest Rock the Bells concert situation was when the same Canadian went up to my girl and said, “And you’re 1/2 White and 1/2 Black?”

“Why do you say that?” she replied in her usual inquisitive voice.

“Because of your nose.”

I let out a hearty laugh, because as it turns out, she’s Colombian and Ecuadorian, yet because of her mind state, she never gets offended by people confusing what she might or might not be.

I guess in his mind, though, there’s no doubt as to what I am. Suffice it to say, people immediately peg me as “Black.” That’s fine; there’s nothing wrong with that. What’s unfortunate, though, is how limiting these labels become. What does it mean to be Black in this country? And does it allow for people who don’t necessarily fit right in that slot?

After all, practically all my life, I never quite fit into the “Black experience” in America. As a Dominican-Haitian-American, I didn’t have the big family reunions in the park, the knowledge of Haitian Creole that I would have liked to, or even the pride in my country that these groups are respectively known for. For the most part, I’ve been waltzing through the four cultures (Dominican, Haitian, Black-American, American) just sampling each, and feeling rejection at various points from all. When people ask me for my background, I tell them “Dominican-Haitian, or Black will do” because that’s what the question entails, but sometimes I wish “Planet Earth” sufficed. (I sometimes wonder about that, too.)

So when I go to Santo Domingo, the capital of Dominican Republic, I see a sea of Africans who’ve made their homes there. I’ve seen very few people who were fair-skinned in the barrio I come from. Yet, when I go there, I’m outcast twice: for being Haitian and American. I tried to fit in, but eventually, the truth about my upbringing comes through.

The same dynamic happens when I’m with my Haitian relatives: while I can still hang with them, eat the foods, and read as much history about Haiti as humanly possible, I still feel that disconnect because I can’t communicate with them in Creole, so I can’t understand the jokes, the music, or what that particular thing is called that this person’s asking me to get for her. Even to this day, this has often brought people to question whether I’m even a real Vilson.

I attribute these sentiments to a father who wasn’t consistently there, a mother who loves me but didn’t teach me Dominican history, and a society so disturbed, it can map out what race is supposed to look like and deny the definitions in the same breadth. Not only until recently did I hear my grandaunt and my mother proclaim their African roots. That certainly would have helped the little boy I was to sift through this cultural clutter.

I’m also critical of the categories those early social scientists and politicians constructed for humans. These divisions exist primarily to divide. How much easier was it for Rafael Trujillo to justify the genocide of and contempt for Haitians when Dominicans could fall under every other name but “Black” even when they looked so alike to them? How easy is it to insulate “desirable” communities in this country if people have to fill in the category they were taught to bubble in on the basis of race? How wonderful is it that people who are “mutts” can be shown disrespect for giving credence to the idea of race (”Race is just a social construct! You fit in just fine!”) AND on the same end, for not being “enough” of one race.

Then, I look at my experiences as a Dominican-Haitian-American, and realize that as many obstacles and tribulations I’ve had, they eventually made me who I am, and I love that person. I love my ability to switch between English and Spanish, to enjoy merengue, hip-hop, salsa, bachata, and rock with no qualms. I’ve been in executive boards of Black and Latino organizations, and held memberships in Haitian and Carribean organizations. I can write about these experiences from my own perspective. I love my brown skin, and how it only costs me a few dollars to get a haircut. (I love my ass, too, but mainly because of the positive reactions I get from women. I can’t help that.)

And I can finally tell the boy wrapped up in the confusion that he’ll find his own path , because it’s the path he’ll have to make for himself …

When we talk about black maybe
We talk about situations
Of people of color and because you are that color
You endure obstacles and opposition
And not all the time from….from other nationalities
Sometimes it comes from your own kind
Or maybe even your own mind
You get judged…you get laughed at…you get looked at wrong
You get sighted for not being strong
The struggle of just being you
The struggle of just being us…black maybe

Common - “U, Black Maybe”

jose

Ed. Note: For a little perspective, my colleague Andy A. sent me this excellent article yesterday about how Dominican women straightening out their hair is a direct reflection of their denial of their African heritage. It’s all part of the Miami Herald’s series of articles about Afro-Latin Americans. What’s funny about this series is that it confirms exactly what I uncovered about my own history: my Dominican ancestors continually deny their African heritage because that’s all they’ve ever known.