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dominican republic

The Sounds of Quisqueya Call Me Right Back

by Jose on May 19, 2009 · 17 comments

in life

Jose In The Dark

Jose In The Dark

Today, Raquel Cepeda linked me to a post about Dominican-Haitian relations that she wrote on her blog, and for those of you who know me, you know I had to jump on that quickly. Most of you know my story already: Dominican mom, Haitian father, grew up conflicted about my identity and how people sought to mold it for me through their often contradictory actions, and eventually, I found my way to an odd but pleasant understanding of how my identity will work for me. It’s a gross summarization / oversimplification of the events that led to the man you see before you.

And even still, I have so many unresolved issues with my “mix” that I almost feel like I’m going to have to write those answers into the history books myself. For instance, why do Dominicans celebrate their independence from Haiti but not from Spanish / French rule? Wouldn’t it make more sense for them to celebrate it from those powerful empires and not a neighboring country that helped them become independent in the first place? Of course, the answers to these questions partly lie in one of the most reviled men of Dominican-American history, Rafael Trujillo, who ruled absolutely, almost like a now and forever king, except much more evil.

The ideas he helped instill (and ideas that many Dominicans were readily willing to accept) made way for people who’ve lived on the same island for centuries, have similar skin tones, foods, music, and DNA mixes to look at each other as completely different. It’s the reason why, when people look at my face, hear my talk, see my fluidity in culture, they’re puzzled and fight that feeling by stigmatizing my being. As a young man trying to understand everything around me, memorable quotes such as “Your lips are so big; you gotta be Black” and “How can you dance? You’re not Dominican.” or even “Man, this is the way we eat food here; you weren’t raised Haitian, so how can you be?”

I couldn’t reply in Creole. I couldn’t tell them about zouk and kompa, or that Quisqueya was the term that we both used to talk about our country. I couldn’t jump into a conversation because I hadn’t developed the ability to interpret conversation based on facial expressions. I couldn’t tell how hard it was to make peace with my stepfather’s ignorance about Haitians and how I felt so unwanted by my mother’s family because I came from a Haitian. I could barely speak Spanish either, except from what I taught myself to read and write. I couldn’t tell them to stop laughing at me for not knowing the word for tooth, or that I’d been to Dominican Republic more times than them.

Because I wasn’t Dominican or Haitian, even though I was clearly both.

But something funny happened along the way. Amidst the prejudice and pride, I used that disposition to assert myself as a whole everything. I am a whole Dominican and a whole Haitian, despite anything telling my observers the contrary. I will dance, I will eat, I will hear, I will speak. Not that I need to always prove people wrong, but icing is a really tasty part of the biscocho. I researched more than most of you care to hear, and got familiar with topics important to both countries.

And the crux of this discovery came from the sounds of Quisqueya itself. Wilfredo Vargas, a Dominican merengue artist best known for “El Perrito (the dog)” dance, had a string of hits in the 70s such as “El Jardinero,” “Cafe Con Leche,” and “La Medicina,” all very country-sounding merengues and all excellently written. In 2002-2004, I’d have these songs on rotation alongside my other musical obsessions of the day because my Dominican family played this during gatherings and parties. In 2008, while hanging with my Haitian family in Miami, I heard a song blair out of my cousin’s speakers. Oh snap. It was the same exact riff from “La Medicina.” All the melodies were there, and even the background singers sang the way “La Medicina” had them.

As Junot Diaz wrote in his meritorious book The Brief Wondrous of Oscar Wao, in one way or another, the island of Quisqueya always has a way of calling back its diaspora. In one way or another.

Jose, who solemny swears by his truths …

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In The Heights and Why I Hated/Love Musicals

by Jose on January 12, 2009 · 4 comments

in life

In The Heights

In The Heights

On Saturday night, I saw the exuberant, Dominican-New Yorker-inspired In The Heights on Broadway, a musical about a young Dominican man trying to discover his life’s purpose with the backdrop of a romanticized version of Washington Heights (around 181st St, Manhattan, NYC). First, I’d like to say that this was a really good musical: good storyline, great music, good characters, and an original screenplay. Working in Washington Heights, I don’t often get to see this “wonderful” side of where my students were raised, hence the romanticism comment. Critics (including my Lucy) mentioned that this play, in some ways, appeals to the lowest common denominator by watering down the harsh realities of said neighborhood.

Nonetheless, it made me contemplate why I never got the opportunity to see a play or musical that spoke to my interests. Growing up, I couldn’t be bothered with either plays or musicals, mainly because my family never had those interests and couldn’t afford them. Fortunately, my schools provided me with enough exposure to the arts that I took an interest in singing and acting during my formative middle and high school years. In middle school, we did Julius Caesar, Romeo and Juliet, and renditions of the New Testament (KRIST!) I also joined the choir, and that was certainly new to me.

In high school, I pursued similar interests. Yet, this time around, I was in a predominantly White high school, and when I auditioned for plays, I met boys (and girls from neighboring schools) who had already been in tons of plays, and had been singing for the majority of their lives. They grew up watching Grease, and having been to on- and off-Broadway shows with their parents. That culture difference and culture shock attributed to my tagline for most of my high school acting career:

“I hate musicals!”

And of course, I didn’t really hate musicals (though I really don’t like Grease). I just felt an aversion to them, really. It was only exacerbated after, when I mentioned my distaste for Grease, a person who I thought was a friend said, “You just need a little culture.” So you’re saying I don’t have culture because I don’t fall head over heels at the chance at wearing a black leather jacket, tight pants, a toothpick, and a button-open polyester shirt? You’re saying because I’ve never seen Chicago or Cabaret, I don’t get to memorize lines, sing bass, or enjoy the company of fellow actors and actress? Can I haz my spotlight now? No? I guess not.

In my senior year of high school, directors and organizers for the musicals changed, and more Blacks and Latinos joined the play than I had ever seen. A couple of years later, I was invited to see another show and I couldn’t help but feel some sort of gratification when 1/2 of the cast members were either Black or Latino. Not that I have anything against White people; to the contrary, I have so many friends and mentors who I have to thank for exposing me to that side of the arts.

Yet, I can’t help but wonder if I had known about plays like The Color Purple, Othello, Anna In The Tropics, or A Raisin in the Sun, would I have adjusted a little better in my knowledge about theatre, having seen playwrights and actors like me who have starring roles on the stage. Hence, In The Heights actually made me emotional at the end. Almost made me wish I could go back and do it all over again …

Jose, who’s always been about pacencia y fe …

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A-Rod Can Haz Dominican Culture Now?

by Jose on December 8, 2008 · 7 comments

in life

Alex Rodriguez's Pledge of Allegiance

Alex Rodriguez

Back in July of 2005, the World Baseball Classic committees were just getting their international rosters, and most people stuck to their countries of origin, as stipulated by the rules. With 16 teams in the competition, many of us baseball fans almost salivated to the chin being able to watch these all-stars playing on the same teams. Derek Jeter, Chipper Jones, and Ken Griffey Jr. all on the same squad? Jose Reyes, David Ortiz, Albert Pujols in one line-up?

Whoa.

And Alex Rodriguez, arguably the best all-around player in baseball, has the choice of playing for either of these teams.

And he chose the Dominican Republic. No harm, no foul.

Yet, what ensued afterwards was a backlash of sorts, including meetings I’m sure very few of us were privy to, and he went from being 100% sure he’d play for the Dominican Republic to not playing for any team whatsoever to eventually playing for the US team. It’s bad enough his reputation as an asshole who wants to please everyone just wouldn’t go away. Now, he’s back to dealing with identity politics that are, in many ways, out of his control. As some people may know, both of his parents are Dominican and he has dual citizenship in both Dominican Republic and the United States, where he’s lived most of his life. He went from living in Washington Heights in NYC to Florida, where his only father figures were his baseball coaches growing up, but his mom still instilled in him some cultural pride, though not ostensibly.

Anyone who considers themselves multi-ethnic or has done a little studying on multi-ethnic people understand that, despite our allegiance to our ancestors’ countries, we also contribute to the American culture and when we go back to those countries of origin, we are usually considered Americans. Even with an accent as heavy as Alex’s, he’s probably looked at as American, at least subconsciously. But that’s the struggle for Alex: forces from the people who pay him his hundreds of millions, including sponsors and players’ unions, and others like his family who he seems to treasure and the 20-some-odd years he wasn’t an American icon, but a Dominican playing America’s favorite pastime.

Yet, on Saturday, December 6th, 2008, and at the behest of David Ortiz, Alex Rodriguez did what he should have done back in 2005. He signed on to play for the Dominican Republic.

Now, the response is completely different. Many Dominicans are lauding the move, calling it “authentic” and “true to what he really is.” Yet, Americans, who were indifferent back in 2005 when he first made the decision to play for the Dominican Republic, now have a growing resentment about this move, calling him “Benedict A-Rod” among other things. And to all of them, I say …

GET OVER YOURSELVES!!!

I can’t believe the gall of anyone who so much as whispers Alexander Emmanuel Rodriguez’ name and can say he’s not Dominican with a straight face. So what if he was born here? Does that completely strip him of any culture that’s instilled in him? Does that make him any less of a man because he is Dominican? Why do people criticize him for making this move? Is it because he was an American-born Dominican rather than a Dominican boy some scout made a lot of lavish promises to and kept in a perpetual farm system? Is it his blond streaks, extra-marital affairs, and rumors with Madonna and maybe some other models here and there? Is it because he’s living the American Dream that so many of you advertise so flauntingly to the rest of the world? Is it because you just need any excuse to berate and denigrate A-Rod, whose name someone shrunk just so they could Americanize it?

And believe me, even as a New York Yankees fan, I get it: he comes off as an arrogant, selfish, rich, undeserving, flip-flopping, callous asshole. I personally don’t see it that way, but I understand where it comes from. But none of this, and I mean NONE of this, gives anyone any right to tell that man whether he gets to be Dominican or celebrate his Dominican culture, and anyone who’s a real fan of the man shouldn’t judge him. Even if you don’t like him as a player, respect his right to his own cultures.

Both of them.

And when he comes to play in the New Yankee Stadium in March of 2009, he’ll be pledging to the American flag right along with everyone else in there.

Jose, who will be waving any one of 2 flags during the WBC, since Haiti doesn’t have a baseball team like that …

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I Walked Across an Empty Land, I Knew The Backways Like The Back Of My Hand

by Jose on August 14, 2008 · 4 comments

in life

This is one of the lost blogs I wrote while I was at Dominican Republic. It was inspired by another Clay Burell post, regarding tourism and its caricatures. Thought I’d post it up tonight in light of the recent immigration post. I also updated a few things here and there, in brackets. Enjoy.

Originally written: July 7th, 2008

Over the last week or so, I’ve stayed in a sweet 4-star resort with my family. Looking around, I couldn’t help but notice that, for a while there, I thought we drove off the island and into another dimension, where masses of Europeans and Canadians ruled the place and actual Caribbeans from the islands were in short supply. I know I’ve been using the word surreal a lot, but just to give you an indication of what I’ve been exposed to,  I’ve hung out, drank, and danced with German, Irish, Canadian, British, French, Spanish, and Scottish people all at once, something I can honestly say I’ve never done and never thought possible unless I became an international rock star. Vainglorious, yes, but now that’s off my non-existent checklist of things I never thought I could pull off. (psh) I met so many people, I had a hard time keeping my NYC accent, often incorporating whichever nation’s representatives’ accent in the process. It wore off only after a heavy dose of Jay-Z and Kanye.

Also worth noting, unfortunately, were the droves of bratty kids that showed up to these resorts. I fully expected that the children of multimillionaire business owners, diplomats, and merchants of different industries would have impertinent children, but some of them really annoyed me to no end. For example, last night, the staff at the resort, a group of 18-28-year-olds, mostly Dominican, and all very energetic, gave a great show last night, full of Caribbean dance, and even a fire show that I fully didn’t expect from a guy I just played basketball with the previous day. During most of the performance, these little brats started ripping up little pieces of paper and launching spitballs at the staff, who still kept the show going. After about 3-4 songs, I got visibly annoyed as did most of the audience, and their parents finally pulled them off-stage.

When I talked to the Fire Man (his nickname for the purposes of this blog) about the aforementioned incident, he said, ironically and in Spanish, “Man, forget about it. These people aren’t used to actual courtesy. They’re not into the things we’re into.” It’s ironic because it’s the predominantly Dominican staff, who might otherwise be called degenerates simply based on their heritage, who acted professional while the wealthy guests of the hotel seem to lack the class and etiquette necessary to enjoy the show.

[It also led me to think of the idea of going to a country without actually being in it. We had running water, drinks all day and night without fail, all types of food and an unending supply, everyone wearing the latest fashionable clothes and the women wearing next to nothing, electricity, air-conditioning in each room, and people waiting on you almost hand and foot. Yet, these very "servants" and entertainers in the place practically work there day and night, from 7am-midnight, just for their families to survive. They're rarely at home, there's a 50% chance they'll get home when the electricity's been shut off in their neighborhood, they need to make sure someone went to the well and got them some water before they get home, their roads are run down, and they keep breakfast as simple as possible so they don't spend any money as most of these foods already cost an arm and a leg ... or their lives.

There's an obvious sense that the mostly European crowd here may believe that most of Dominican Republic is like that, and that's the image they share with their superwealthy friends and family when they go back to their mansions. Yes, there are definitely palm trees, Bacardi rum, and brown people in this country, but everything else around them was a complete abstraction, but I guess that's what vacations are for. There's no room for harsh reality.]

It wasn’t all bad though. Actually, it was a very good stay. Good shows, lots of swimming, great food, and very cordial people all around. Many of the people we hung out with on this trip were so nice and inviting for everything, especially after we proved ourselves on the dance floor and at the bar. Most of the conversations ended with, “You should definitely visit Glasgow/Dublin/London/Belfast/etc. and we’ll show you around.” Most of the conversations my brother and I had after speaking to them were, “What accent are we using right now?”

jose, [who definitely just used Keane's "Somewhere Only We Know" in his title ...]

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Ojala Que Llueva Cafe En El Campo (Hope That It Rains Coffee In The Field)

by Jose on July 22, 2008 · 16 comments

in life

Kids In Front of School In Rain

Juan Luis Guerra’s quintessential song is “Ojala Que Llueva Cafe En El Campo,” a song that comes across more as a incantation that the poor and hopefully at the least have coffee somehow fall from the sky to bless them, as if to say that G_d might bless them with their basic necessities to relieve them from their hunger, strife, and sorrow. Riddled with metaphors and as passionate as any song you’ll hear, it’s a reminder of how simple his people’s needs really are. In our own little way, we can be that “cafe” for someone else, not necessarily saving the children, but giving them what they need as well as we can.

On the first night that I landed in Dominican Republic, in the village my mother comes from, I almost immediately found myself teaching math, in a town in need of someone who understands how to turn “improper” fractions into mixed numbers, and how to divide. It’s scary that, even on my vacation, I’m put in the precarious position of trying to tutor a student on 2 years of math in 2 hours. The 16-year-old had a test the next day, and she didn’t really understand anything her teacher was talking about. Of course, that’s where I get to show off and make students wish they got excited about math the way I do. (ed note: Please don’t get it twisted. For goodness sakes, this is strictly PG if not G.)

Granted, a couple of things are at work here. First off, the environment she’s been raised in isn’t the best. The emphasis on education in the neighborhood is, to put it politely, disparate, seldom, and limited. There are a few residents of the hood who’ve done great things like try out for the Olympics and gone to Argentina and Spain (I’m proud to call them family), but most of the people in my neighborhood beyond that. There’s also the utter destruction of their streets, the filth that emanates from the lack of sewage and garbage transport, the violence and rape that’s occured and increased over the last 6-7 years, and what seems like an unresponsive government only concerned with getting their faces painted all over buildings and not reaching back to their supporters.

There was also her attitude. Her voice went from sweet to rancid in seconds, calling out her friends and passersby all types of names that I wasn’t too fond of. When I’m in an educational mind frame, I can’t help but roll my eyes when I’m cursing. Her friend, whose 2 years younger but who looks 10 years older, quit school (or was asked to leave) because of a prank she pulled on a teacher. Her own voice seemed to echo a naiveté about the consequences of her actions, and what most of my friends here deem as unacceptable (having a family really early) seems to be her destiny from the hints she dropped about herself.

Yet, the one slice of hope, and that’s when the next day, the girl I taught told me she definitely passed her math exam, and that excited me a bit. I also knew I couldn’t be there for the rest of her educational career to see her through “la universidad.” However, I did find something out about my little cousin Wanda that I would have never known.

She likes math.

A lot.

And she’s proficient.

Once I found out, my brother and I decided we’d sponsor her to come to the States, that is, if her grades remained at the excellent level they’re at. I put down a nice down payment, and all they needed to do was make sure she’d do what she needed. Not to say that the conditions here are the greatest, but I also find that the most successful people out of Dominican Republic have traveled to other places besides the other side of their country. They can follow the examples of Juan Luis Guerra, Aventura, Julia Alvarez, Junot Diaz, Amelia Vega, Felix Sanchez, and the myriad of underrated athletes, politicians, historians, writers, beauty pageant contestants, and television personalities that may come from their neighborhoods.

But more than anything, they can come back to their neighborhoods and be the coffee that awakens the people in their neighborhoods.

Ojala que llueva cafe …

jose, who’s taken some of the lessons from over there and applied them to his mindset here …

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El Costo De La Vida (The Cost Of Life)

by Jose on July 21, 2008 · 3 comments

in life

Cost of Living

In “El Costo De La Vida (The Cost Of Life)”, Juan Luis Guerra starts off the song like he and his friends are reading straight from a stack of newspapers he’s got on his desk. Check the flow:

El costo de la vida sube otra vez
el peso que baja ya ni se ve
y las habichuelas no se pueden comer
ni una libra de arroz ni una cuarta de café
a nadie le importa qué piense usted
será porque aquí no hablamos inglés
ah ah es verdad.. ah ah e’ verdad. ah ah e’ verdad .
do you understand?

which translates to:

The cost of life goes up again
The peso goes down, can’t even see it
And the beans can’t be eaten
Not even a pound of rice or a quart of coffee
No one cares what you think
Perhaps it’s because we don’t speak English
Ah ah it’s the truth, ah ah it’s the truth, ah ah it’s the truth
Do you understand?

And it’s funny because August, a friend of mine and a social activist in her own right, wrote up a rant describing how contradictory it is for the government to lean towards the removal of social welfare but bail out Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac by simply printing new money for them. And it’s not just happening in the United States but in Guerra’s homeland, Dominican Republic.

During my last visit, I noticed 3 quick indications of the strife and turmoil afflicting the people of Dominican Republic:

1. The peso is of such little value that when the cash register rings up in decimals, cashiers round up to the nearest peso or even the nearest tens place.

2. Crime has risen extremely high in the neighborhood I resided in, to the point where there seems to be an unwritten curfew where everyone double- and triple-locks their doors and gates.

3. The worst threat that many conservative Dominicans perceived was the influx of Haitian immigrants who pedaled everything from peanuts and lollipops to coconuts and pineapples, not the lack of economic or political growth in the country, lack of jobs, or even a nice and clean environment for their kids to play.

And it’s with this passion that a man from even affluent beginnings became the Bohemian philanthropist we know him as today. The anger and despondence of the people he sought to represent his whole career is even more elucidated when we witness the video for said song, banned by several countries for having an anti-American / anti-capitalist message. He probably found out right then and there how powerful his music had become: a strong political message over a seductive merengue beat.

In these kinds of conditions, how could you be moderate? How could you NOT take a side?

la corrupción pa arriba
ya ve pa’ riba tu ves
y el peso que baja
ya ve pobre ni se ve
y la delicuencia
ya ve me pilló otra vez
aquí no se cura
ya ve ni un callo en el pie
…
y ahora el desempleo
ya ve me mordió también
a nadie le importa noo
ni a la mitsubishi ya ve ni a la chevrolet

English Translation:

The corruption goes up
You see, it goes up you see
And the peso goes down
You see, you don’t even see the poor
And the crime
You see, they pillaged me again
Here it’s never cured
You see, not even the callus in my foot
…
and now the unemployment
You see, it bit me too
You don’t matter to anyone, no
Not to Mitsubishi, you see, and not to Chevrolet …

For your listening pleasure: “El Costo De La Vida” by Juan Luis Guerra (YouTube)

… to be continued tomorrow

jose, who knows the cost of living is costing us our lives …

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My Hood, Your Hood

by Jose on June 30, 2008 · 0 comments

in life

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.

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My Middle Finger’s Swollen!

by Jose on June 30, 2008 · 3 comments

in life

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 …

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Can’t Tell Me Nothing

by Jose on April 17, 2008 · 5 comments

in life

Miguel Tejada as a Baltimore Oriole

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 …

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Protecting Our Children From What?

by Jose on March 4, 2008 · 9 comments

in Uncategorized

Santiago Flyer for Event

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 …

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