East coast bias/Prejuicio de la costa este

In sports fandom, and sometimes in sports journalism, there's a thing I refer to often called east coast bias. It's the national media's insistence to cover and often fawn over teams on the East coast of the country. Almost 100% of the time, that means New York and Boston. Other teams don't get equal coverage.

ESPN is notorious for this and it's one of the reasons I dislike the network and their coverage. ESPN also has an annoying tendency to pick up a news story and shake it to death like a dog. They did it with their incessant Brett Favre coverage a few years ago. They created an entire block of programming dedicated to where LeBron James would go after his contract with Cleveland expired. They make a mountain out of a whole lot of "who cares?" but their greatest offense is the extreme bias they show toward New York and Boston teams.

Which means they show nothing but Yankees and Red Sox games. They talk about nothing but those teams. In the Bay Area, I can ignore it by watching my regional sports networks and take solace in knowing my sports broadcasters (for the most part) aren't as horrible as the national media.

Here is a different story. I've only seen a few baseball games on TV but all, with the exception of one, has had either the Red Sox, Yankees, or Tampa Bay Rays involved in the contests.

I can see the motivation for this. David Ortiz, the immensely popular Red Sox designated hitter, is Dominican and is one of the best hitters of his generation. Hell, I even like him because he's so jolly. He's such a big deal here that the local newspapers refer to him only as "David." It also makes sense that they would show more Yankees games here because of the large Dominican population in New York. Also, Robinson Cano (born in San Pedro de Macoris) plays for the Yankees and he's very popular as well.

Don't ask about Alex Rodriguez. I did a straw poll a few days after arriving here and I learned that the people here do not like him because he chose to play for the US in the first World Baseball Classic rather than the Dominican Republic.

I can even see why Dominicans would care about Tampa Bay. I assume there are some Dominicans in Florida. They can't all be Cubans.

Last night was one of the most insane nights of my life, and I wasn't even doing anything. I kept an eye on the box scores from the Yankees/Rays and Red Sox/Orioles games, as it was the final day of the regular season and both American and National League Wild Card slots were on the line. The Rays and Red Sox went into Wednesday with identical records. It was the same for Atlanta and St. Louis in the National League. St. Louis won while Atlanta lost, completing a huge collapse and rise for both teams. St. Louis was 8.5 games behind the Wild Card pace on August 25, and now they're in the playoffs.

The Orioles and Rays both came back from deficits in the bottom of the ninth inning. Tampa was down 7-0 before they came back with six runs in the eighth, and then Dan Johnson, a former Oakland scrapheap pickup, hit the game-tying home run with two outs in the bottom of the ninth. The teams battled through three more innings before Evan Longoria hit his second homer of the game in the 12th inning, giving the Rays the victory.

Up the seaboard in Baltimore, the Orioles scored two runs in the bottom of the ninth inning and won the game on a bloop single. Longoria was standing in the batters' box at 12:02am eastern time as the out of town scoreboard flashed the final score of the Red Sox game. At 12:05am, the Rays were AL Wild Card champions.

In the span of three minutes, an entire baseball season changed. That's why this sport is so beautiful.

I was at the final game of the 2010 season in San Francisco, when the NL West title came down to the last day. The Giants won of course, and it was absolute bedlam. I swear I felt the whole stadium shake. The Giants players took a victory lap around the warning track high fiving fans. Tim Lincecum dropped an F bomb on live television over the jumbotron (thus a swearing legend was born). On the way out of the stadium, I saw a SFFD fire wagon roar down King Street with sirens blaring and lights flashing and a huge Giants flag flying behind it.

A month later we were World Champions.

 

So I know how those Tampa and St. Louis fans feel. The Rays or the Cardinals could be World Series winners, or they could not be. But they won with their backs against the wall and I can tell you that feels so damn good.

It also feels good to be a fan of this beautiful game when the fates of so many teams depend on the final day. It's akin to Game 7 of any sport. Everything is on the line. It's the highest level of excitement we can get.

Around town here I see billboards for the MLB playoffs on TBS and FOX. I will get to see the World Series in its entirety. FOX, despite being located in Los Angeles, has horrible announcers that are experts in East Coast bias rhetoric. That didn't stop me from watching the World Series last year, or the year before, etc.

As for me being a Giants fan and watching my team take a complete nosedive and miss the playoffs, I'm not as upset as I should be. We won last year, and after 56 years of nothing, I'll take it. The Red Sox are out, which pleases me. And the Dodgers still suck, which is a moral victory for us all.

Longoria's home run puts him in exalted company. He and Bobby Thomson ("The Shot Heard 'round the World") are the only players in Major League history to hit walk-off homers in the final game of the regular season to clinch a playoff spot. 

From 1951 to 2011.

Baseball really is beautiful.

And hey! My first article on my research in the D.R. has been posted: Epy Guerrero’s baseball legacy lives in the US and the Dominican Republic. Go! Read! Thank the gods that they picked semi-flattering photos of me!

The language/El idioma

Today I'm writing about language.

I'm not going to rehash my complaining about my poor Spanish skills here. I'm writing about observations I've picked up about Spanish, and my struggle with a curveball thrown at me in history class today.

I asked a few trusted sources about my preparedness for immersion once I completed the first year of my Spanish classes: my Spanish professor and my global studies advisor. They both assured me that I would be fine coming to the Dominican Republic after successful completion of Spanish 1B, the second semester of the first year of Spanish classes at San Jose State.

That makes sense, if you know the curriculum. Spanish 1A/1B teaches the grammar and fundamentals of Spanish. I got A's in both classes. On paper, I was ready to be shipped off to a world where they speak my new language.

I'm very strong with Spanish grammar. I know the contexts in which to use certain verb tenses. I remember which nouns are masculine and feminine with little problems. I even remember nuances such as Greek loan words taking masculine gender articles despite ending with -a, a classic designation of feminine nouns of Spanish origin. The only thing I had trouble with grammar-wise was the two main past tenses of verbs: preterite and imperfect. After drilling exercises repeatedly and listening/reading more Spanish, I'm getting the hang of those now too.

I didn't pay much attention to vocabulary in either 1A or 1B. Now I realize how damaging that was for me. No wonder I can't understand what anyone's saying here. Being strong on grammar in any language but not knowing vocab is like trying to run after someone sliced your Achilles tendon in half.

Fluency in Spanish is something that's important to me. It's become one of my biggest goals for the future.  But even as I can become fluent by graduation, once I've completed the third year of my Spanish classes, I don't know that I'll always be 100% comfortable in the language, and I know that I won't always be understood.

Take my history teacher here, for example. He speaks English fluently and I have no trouble understanding him. He doesn't always use English syntax correctly and sometimes his verb conjugations are off, but I understand what he's saying. Sometimes he doesn't understand what I say in English because of lexical differences, but after trying to explain it a different way, he understands.

This leaves me to question what fluency really is. Is it speaking, reading, and writing perfectly in a language? Or is it grasping the language well enough to make your point understood? Does fluency demand a speaker at least understand lexical differences and dialects within the chosen language? For example, I'm going to return to the States speaking Dominican Spanish. In a world of Mexicans and Mexican-Americans, I can't see "que lo que" ("what's up?") and "'ta bien" ("that's fine") being understood. But that's how I speak here, because it's how we speak here.

I met a visiting professor from Georgetown University in Washington, DC at a lecture at FUNGLODE last week. Right off the bat I could tell he wasn't Dominican. When he spoke, there were subtle differences in his accent and the way he pronounced words. I learned he's Venezuelan.

I also remember my Spanish teacher telling us that some Spanish speakers pronounce the Z sound as a "th." It's a very European thing.

I'm fascinated by the differences in lexicon and dialects in any language, but especially in how Spanish evolved in different parts of the world. For my PhD, I'd really like to study the sociological reasons for why Dominicans speak the way they do, versus Venezuelans, Mexicans, South Americans, Filipinos, etc., and how phrases like "que lo que" (or KLK in netspeak) and "'ta bien" came to be here.

That should get me a hefty research grant, right? Maybe I can finally get that education visa to go to Cuba, too.

In class today we read aloud from a translation of an article written by a high ranking Catholic priest here. Naturally, I had to read the parts with Latin words. You'd think that I'd be okay with Latin after studying four years of French in high school, learning Spanish now, and generally being an etymology whore. I could not pronounce the Latin words, even if you put a gun to my head and told me my life depended on reading those words.

And it's true. I'm obsessed with word origins. All this chatter about studying dialects and etymology. Maybe I should have been a linguistics major.

The experience was good for perspective. It showed me that I suck at Latin, but I'm pretty good at Spanish. The only reason I suck at Latin is because I haven't studied it. Even when I took Japanese--which is a bitch for someone with only a background in Latin-based languages, let me tell you--I grasped it quickly. I've lost most of it because I don't practice reading, writing, and speaking.

That's not going to happen with Spanish. It's part of my life now. I can't rely simply on my ability to pick up foreign languages quickly. It means I have to keep working toward my goal of fluency and I have to make mistakes and look stupid and mess up along the way, because that's how we learn.

And if it means I never get to learn Dutch or Korean (two more goals of mine), then oh well. I fell in love with Spanish and the Caribbean, and this is where I--in my academic and linguistic adventures--belong.

Upper class twit/La gila de clase alta

I stole the title of this blog post from a longtime friend on LiveJournal, where I used to blog years ago. That blog was pretty much the same as this one, except more profane and whinier. If that makes this blog boring, I apologize. I had to draw the line somewhere to make my personal life fit for human consumption.

I have changed since I arrived in the Dominican Republic. I haven't undergone any profound personal growth. My Spanish is improving at a snail's pace. I've managed to keep my articles around 500 words--I'm sorry, I just can't handcuff myself to the exact word limit. You'll get 515 words and that's the best I can do. Damn this concise writing nonsense.

Instead, I have received a new identity. Here I am an upper class white person.

Those are odd labels for me, as I don't identify with either quality. A friend once described me as "bootstrappy"--you know, pulling oneself up by the bootstraps. Coming from nothing and working hard to get somewhere. Plus I never identified with being white, other than laughing at the blog Stuff White People Like: http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/. I always considered myself a Mexican wandering through a multi-racial American landscape where my last name was the key to acceptance. I attend a state university, financed completely by loans and grants as I can't afford to pay for my education out of pocket, and I work two jobs to make ends meet. I live in a hole of an apartment and I had to sell my car before I came here because I couldn't afford the repairs to keep it going.

Here, I live in a gorgeous spacious apartment in a nice neighborhood with a stunning view of the Caribbean Sea. I have a doorman and security guards who greet me as I come and go. I have cable with 400+ channels and HBO still has the same six movies on every week. Step your game up, HBO.

It's Monday, which means it's cleaning day. Two women come to clean my apartment every Monday morning. They even change the sheets for me. This is not something I'm used to, and I'm still not comfortable with it. Part of me is resistant because I've always cleaned up after myself and done my own chores, and the other part of me is a relentless control freak who gets nauseated by the idea of strangers touching my stuff and doing chores for me because I'm sure they'll do it all wrong. It keeps me up at night.

I don't have school today so I'm sitting around typing this and watching the women clean my apartment. I can't say I'll ever get used to the idea of someone cleaning up after me.

I attend a prestigious university. As I mentioned before, UNIBE is one of the best schools in the nation. I feel a sense of satisfaction that I can go here after Stanford turned me down. Who cares if nobody knows what UNIBE is? The point is that I was good enough for a top school somewhere. It's good enough for me.

In my brief time at UNIBE, I get the impression that it's a school for rich kids. I'm not knocking the university or the student body, but my friend at school will corroborate my story. Yes, I made a friend. Hooray for me. She's smart and cool and for some reason likes spending time with me.

On the walk home from school last week, I looked down at my arms under my parasol and saw white skin. My tan from the pool is fading now that I'm no longer in the sun 24/7. I walk with a parasol when I go out too, so I don't get sunburned.

All right, so it's a stupid blue umbrella I got from the bus stop ages ago. It was free. I'm trying to stay within the lines of this whole upper class thing. Parasol it is.

My golden brown tan is almost gone. Now the only clue to my Latina identity is my last name. I'm white now. I'm definitely white among the darker skinned people here. Anyone can see it and assume I'm at best a snobby European descendant, or at worst a dumb ass-backwards American. Woe.

My upper class status will fade once I return to the States, where once again I will be broke and Mexican. Here, having a little money and the privilege to attend university bumps me up the ladder. It's made me change my perspective of social labels. One small change has led to an enormous shift for me. I can be upper class for a few months, but deep down, I'll always be a twit.

I thought the only things I'd learn about here were Spanish and baseball. The passive lessons are just as valuable.

Those I left behind/Los que dejé atrás

This post kind of fits in with the prologue, but it's also relevant to my life here. Today I'm writing about the life I put on hold to come to the Dominican Republic. I'm writing about the people and things I left behind.

I live in San Jose, California. It's the 10th largest city in the United States, larger than San Francisco. SF is a global city--a globalization term that means a city is integral to the world economy. SJ is not a global city. It's integral to American technology and sustainability industries, but nine times out of ten, when I tell someone that I live in San Jose, they've never heard of it. Everyone knows San Francisco. Sometimes a frame of reference is needed.

I left San Jose behind for 15 weeks in the tropics. I spent all the money I have in the world to come here: several thousand dollars to pay for my internship, tuition at UNIBE, and housing. I have a little bit socked away for groceries and incidentals, but that's it.

I left behind my work, my home, my friends, and my boyfriend as well. Fortunately, they all have allowed me to come back when I return in December.

If you've been following the posts before this, you know I work as a blogger and contributing writer for a few websites in the States. I also work at the Santa Clara Swim Club, a well-known and highly respected swim club in the Silicon Valley (the region containing San Jose and other cities, named for the tech firms and development housed in the region). I teach swim lessons for children of all ages (and some adults!) on the weekends, while I attend classes at SJSU during the week.

I love my teaching job. Swimming plus baseball means I get to work outside and wear basically whatever I want. I get to splash around with kiddos and be goofy and silly, yet I work my kids hard and I feel satisfaction from teaching them an important life-saving skill plus giving them something to work for, and something I hope gives them self-confidence.

We operate on a schedule of four sessions a year. I'm missing two whole sessions to be here. I told my boss about my plans to study abroad at the beginning of 2011 and she wants me to return to my teaching duties when I come home. I know how lucky I am to have any job in the crappy American economy, and I feel blessed that I can leave for a while, do my thing, and come back to a job I love.

I don't think my social life is especially rockin' when compared to my college contemporaries. I don't drink until I pass out and I attend marching band parties, which are pretty fun. They're just not keggers or ragers. We drink and play beer pong and just hang out. But I'm cut off from my friends here due to differences in how cell phones work and time zones.

I can't just pick up the phone and call someone. I can't text. Here, I rely on phone cards and putting money on my cell phone. In the States, I have an unlimited plan and I admit I text a hell of a lot. Text and call costs add up; those ten pesos here and there soon eat up the few hundred pesos I put on my phone every week. So I save my phone for calling my mom, my dad, and my brother, who don't have internet access. I call them and our conversations last for a few minutes, mostly me saying I'm safe and fine and no hurricanes have washed me out to sea.

I talk with my friends in the States when I can via the internet. I haven't tried Skype yet. Mostly it's via Facebook chat, as buggy as it is and as annoying as FB's changes have been. You probably have been hit with their asinine friends feed shift. I switched my FB language to Spanish, and the feed went back to normal. Suck it, Facebook.

Okay, so I should have been using the Spanish settings all along. Don't take away my righteous indignation.

It's hard to stay in contact with my friends, though. Most of them are on the West Coast, meaning I'm three hours ahead of them. I stay up until 3am most nights just trying to see if anyone's around to talk to me. I don't always get enough sleep, especially on school nights. So far I've been able to get by as one of the walking dead.

That feeds into natural feelings of loneliness. I live in a city of over three million people and I know like, ten people. I'm still trying to become confident with my Spanish. It's easy to feel alone here when I can't always understand others and I can't always articulate myself, and it's easy to feel alone here when I don't know that many people to communicate with in the first place.

My roommate Indhira has been great for encouraging me to get out of the apartment and socialize with her friends. I'm still reluctant to go out, but I'm feeling less and less awkward about it.

My go-to sources of comfort and safety in the States are my boyfriend and my home. Sam and I moved into our apartment in July, a two-bedroom dump we share with a good friend of ours, Phil. I love it because it's our dump and I feel comfortable and safe there. I need to have my nest.

Sam and I are very close. Aside from being my boyfriend, he's also my best friend. I don't trust anyone in my life as much as I trust him. I had severe issues with leaving him to come here and I'm still not happy about it.

I don't get to talk to him as much as I want to. He has classes and activities and things he has to do. His schedule doesn't match up with mine.

It sucks. I can't put it any other way.

I sat around today and got all weepy and stupid watching The Time Traveler's Wife because I miss Sam so damn much. I hate sleeping in a bed without him. I hate waking up and not seeing him next to me. I hate that I can't see any texts from him. He sent me texts about 20 times a day that just say "I love you."

Yes, vomit. Whatever. I'm a sappy idiot and I don't care.

I didn't leave these parts of my life behind per se. It's more like putting that part of my life on hold, but they keep going. I go on here while thinking about them going on there and wishing I could have parts of my life here.

I love it here in the D.R. I let myself daydream about living here with Sam and working at a good job and having friends and a happy life. But my life is in San Jose now. It's just hard to think of my life going on without me.

How to get an education/Cómo acceder una educación

In my last entry, I said a lot of bad things about San Jose State. My home university is an incredible pain in the ass, as are all California State University and University of California schools are. Long story short: the state cut $1.5 billion in funding to the public college budget (including community colleges), so everyone's feeling it.

And like I said, I don't blame SJSU's incompetence on the lack of funding. But, if that's what has really plunged the university into a state of idiocy, I am scared for what could happen to universities in the Dominican Republic.

There are about 20 universities in Santo Domingo, and around five in Santiago de los Caballeros, the two largest cities in the D.R. Those two cities make up about 4.5 million of the 10 million-ish national population. Naturally, the most populous areas hold the most colleges and universities.

I'm focusing on Santo Domingo for this blog post because it's where I'm living and it's the city I know most about. However, the university situation is the same for students across the country. Wealthy students get to attend. There's little to no middle class here. Rural students are often S.O.L. because of the fact that there no schools out in the country, plus rural students are most likely poor.

There is one public university in Santo Domingo, La Universidad Autonoma de Santo Domingo. It has over 170,000 students. The rest of the schools in the city are private and have much smaller enrollment, often in the low thousands. My school, UNIBE, has 4,500 students. It's hard for students to attend the public university here because of the economic stuff I mentioned before.

Last week a story broke in the news about UASD considering privatization to solve its budget problems. I don't know all of the details of that, but I can't see how that would help things at all.

The fact that the one public university in the nation is in dire financial trouble AND considering privatization is extremely alarming to me. I'm a firm believer in education and what it can do for a nation and for society. It gives us power. It gives us purpose. It's necessary for democracy and for progress. I think of the students who won't get a chance to attend university here, due to their own lack of funding and due to UASD's problems, and my heart breaks for them and for this nation.

In the States, there are many more options for those who want to go to college. If it's a matter of funding, or bad grades, community colleges are an affordable option to get your general education done--equivalent to about half of your bachelor's degree requirements. I went to community college first and managed to pay for my general education requirements out of pocket. I attended a top school which transfers large numbers of students to UC and CSU. My CC had transfer agreements with UC and CSU schools to ensure admission.

The only requirement for enrolling at my CC for general education transfer was to be 18 and have a high school diploma or  GED. But I know the schools offer classes and programs for students under 18 and can help students get their GED and diplomas.

I'm glad I picked CC first. It was the best idea I've ever had.

Back to university admissions in the States. Public universities can be selective, and some state schools have impacted and competitive majors which require high grades and lots of achievements. But if the student really wants to go to college, there's a school for that student somewhere. And funding is out there, in grants, loans, and scholarships. I have god awful credit and I still got federal funding to cover my housing and tuition, and I've won a few scholarships.

I haven't seen anything that indicates that's the case in the D.R., in terms of open university slots and funding.

Of course, I only have real world experience with my university here. UNIBE is one of the most prestigious schools in the D.R. It has a renowned med school and has programs in engineering, business, architecture; you know, fast-growing and in-demand careers. Lots of international students go here. Nobody here screws around, either. In every one of my classes at SJSU, I've seen students mailing it in. Texting in class. Not bothering to do the work. Not even showing up but for the midterms and paper due dates.

I think education is a gift and that gift should not be wasted. I see a much different attitude here in the D.R. for people who want to attend school, which looks to be almost 100% of the students. I've seen too many students at SJSU and my CC who can't be bothered and that's just wrong.

It's as wrong as the possibility of taking away public education for university students in the D.R.

Sadly, my trip to las Hermanas Mirabal museum today was postponed because a massive storm rolled in this afternoon. Instead I watched the lighting flash over the city skyline and wrote an article for my internship.

Tomorrow I have history class, followed by a whole weekend of freedom! Saturday class was cancelled due a national holiday. What do I do with myself with two whole days off?

The beginning, part III: The process/El comienzo, parte tres: el proceso

Originally I envisioned these backstory posts as a fixed number of entries. Like, it would only take four or five of them to wrap up the backstory and we could move on to other things.

Then I realized that my existence here is less of a story than the things that brought me here. That said, I have no idea how many prologue pieces there will be in the future. I'm not limiting myself with a number, whether it be four or four hundred. I'll just tell the stories that need to be told.

Today's story is one that's shorter than the other prologue stories in chronology but longer in content. It's the story of how I had to fight tooth and nail just to come here, and of how I won.

I must warn you. I'm about to be pretty angry and I might drop an F bomb in the upcoming text.

As you've read before, I'm a global studies major at San Jose State. You all know that doing a study abroad semester is required for me to graduate. Apparently, San Jose State's administration does not understand this.

Here's a little backstory belonging to SJSU and their study abroad office. When I did my campus tour and orientation, I asked both times about doing a study abroad, mostly costs. They assured me that I'd get academic credit for going (!) and funding would be covered by my financial aid (!) and costs were about the same as attending university here (!) and everything was ever so great!

I had several phone interviews with the InteRDom admissions coordinators, starting in February. As I got closer to actually going to the D.R., I was asked to pay the program fees or provide financial aid documentation, because they were willing to wait until I got my financial aid disbursement. I went to SJSU's financial aid office to ask if I could get my financial aid early because this was a special case.

I was referred to a specialist and given an appointment for another day. In the meantime, they told me to speak to the study abroad office to see if they could help me.

Here's something that you must understand about SJSU. Everyone who works for the university administration is a mind-numbing combination of rude, unhelpful, or stupid. I get that there's no money in the budget and thus services aren't always available, but I wasn't aware that it required money to prevent people from acting like unkempt dolts.

As you probably surmised, I got no help at the study abroad office. They never heard of InteRDom. They asked me why I wasn't going through the CSU-affiliated, pre-packaged study abroad programs. Well, duh, because InteRDom is amazing and I found it and I want to, so there.

This was my downfall.

I went to my appointment with the specialist at the financial aid office. She was the queen of the dolts: rude, unhelpful, AND stupid. I laid it out for her: my advisor had explained to me how the study abroad financing works. You register for a special 11-unit course to do the study abroad to get your aid, and 99% of the time, you'll have at least one more class to take while you're abroad. In our case, it's Global Studies 189, the global experience requirement. Thus you're over 12 units, full time status, and you're good to go for the financial aid.

She had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. I told her I was signed up for two classes totaling six units at UNIBE, that were already approved for transfer to SJSU, and I was going to have GLST 189 as well. She refused to accept that those classes in the DR would count for anything, then told me that I wouldn't get financial aid because I wasn't a full time student.

Hold up. Taking nine units plus doing an extensive research project isn't being a full time student?

I said exactly that to her. God help me, I tried my best to keep my innate bitchery in check, even as this woman pissed me off something fierce. But she tried her best to ruin my life. Here's how she did that.

She accused me of wanting to exploit federal financial aid funding and alluded to me stealing that money by not having units at SJSU while I was abroad.

In the name of OH HELL NO, flipping tables, and all that is holy...

I got mad. I didn't yell. I didn't scream. I did tell her, firmly, that this was required of me for graduation and I worked my ass off to make InteRDom pick me. I applied for (and won) scholarships that would only pay for part of it. And that other little thing. What was it?

IT WAS REQUIRED OF ME FOR GRADUATION

She held her snooty ass attitude and her position, so I finally left. Yes, I stormed out. I just could not continue talking to that rancid woman as long as she was trying to accuse me of dishonesty and thievery.

I'm still furious about it now. My hands are shaking thinking about how much I hate her.

I spent about a day and a half mired in despair. I felt like that was it. I had nothing left to try. I wasn't going to the Dominican Republic after all. It takes an awful lot to make me consider admitting defeat. SJSU managed to do this to me several times over the summer. Just wait, there's more of these stories to come.

That night, I couldn't sleep because I was too exhausted from crying and swallowing my urge to take a baseball bat into the financial aid office and swing for the fences. So I went looking around for classes I could take while abroad to make up 12 units.

I went to my advisor the next day, armed with a plan: I would take GLST 189, an online class (technology and civilization, the class I have right now), and two individual studies courses. He got on the horn immediately with the chairs of the history department and the journalism department to explain what was up: the university was trying their damndest to ruin my life, and we needed to come up with an extra six units of credit for me to get my financial aid while I was abroad.

Thank Jesus, Buddah, Allah, and Oprah that they both agreed. My Dominican history class here counts for History 180 and my journalism work plus my current events class counts as Mass Comm 180.

I need to make this abundantly clear. I have 12 units at SJSU, plus six units here, plus this research project. So that's 18 units of credit and 10-20 hours a week of work.

And somehow that doesn't make me a full time student.

I registered for those classes. I got my financial aid. And now I'm here. But that's not enough to show that I had won. That was just slaying the dragon by stabbing it in the neck and then checking your hair in the reflection of the dull eye of the repugnant beast you just killed.

InteRDom also required me to have a doctor's note saying I was healthy to travel abroad. The health center at school offers these services...but if you're going to some place that has bad things like tetanus, you need to have your vaccines up to date before going.

I don't have health insurance and I had to pay out of pocket for every vaccine I needed. And I needed five: TB, Tdap, tetanus, flu, and something else I forgot. It was over $300 for all the vax and I'm terminally poor. I had very little money over the summer because I only work part time.

Panic button all over again.

Prior to all of this mess, I had won the College of Social Sciences Dean's scholarship for studying abroad. They refused to tell me when they'd disburse that money. So I had to call in another favor to get the department to give me at least part of it to cover my medical costs.

That one was approved with much less drama and murderous intent. That was like walking away with the prize after I kicked the disgusting dragon in the head on the way out.

Sometimes I can look back at the things in my life that got me all riled up and think "oh how silly that was of me." I'm still legitimately angry over that whole circus that lasted over a semester. And my only crime was aiming for my dream internship. Now that I think about it, I need the scars to remind me of how I got here, and how to fight in the future.

About a month before I left, I played Lupe Fiasco's "The Show Goes On" practically on repeat. I felt like he wrote that song just for me and what I was going through. It's a song about struggling to succeed, never giving up despite all the shit you have to slog through, and above all, never letting the sons of bitches keep you down. There's a particular lyric where he talks about giving up everything, even starting a world war for the ghetto kids he's rapping for.

I really took that to heart. I'm far from the only one who's getting screwed by San Jose State. I needed to win and go to the Dominican Republic to show those who get left behind by the school that this is not their ultimate fate. It was what got me through the darkest of the dark times; thinking that I couldn't give up because it was all for them. I could no longer believe in myself, so instead I believed in them.

I would sit on the seventh floor of the library and look out at the panoramic view of downtown San Jose listening to that song over and over with tears pouring down my face. In the days before I left, and I'm talking literally days before, I still couldn't believe that I did it and I was going after all.

I have to go back to SJSU in December. I have four more semesters until graduation--that is, if the school remains at its usual state of crappy affairs. If it gets any worse, I might have to push back my grad date. Having to work a little harder and wait a little longer to graduate doesn't upset me as much as thinking of suffering at the hands of the uncaring and incompetent university administration any longer than I have to.

I hate San Jose State and if I had any options to transfer elsewhere or take classes at another school, I would do it right away. My major isn't offered at most colleges, plus my life is in San Jose now. I live there. I work there. I love the city, and I love my teachers. The university can go directly to hell, however.

So I need an effective coping strategy for that, when I return. I'm open to suggestions.

The beginning, part II: The objective/El comienzo, parte dos: El objetivo

When I started the series of background posts, I said I would write them on days where nothing new happened. Today, I defined the focus of my investigative reporting and my eventual final paper: the sociological aspects of baseball in the Dominican Republic, focusing on six areas (economics, business, race and gender, law, media, and education).


That's an enormous step forward for me. Plus, it dovetails perfectly into this blog post. Part II of the backstory involves why I'm studying baseball and why I'm doing it in the Dominican Republic.


I'm from the San Francisco Bay Area in Northern California. I was born and raised a baseball fan and I embraced the San Francisco Giants right away. Later on, I came to appreciate the Oakland Athletics. It's all Bay Area love as far as I'm concerned. I don't subscribe to the non-rivalry between the two teams. I see no need for inferiority complexes or stadium debates between fans, either.


My dream job growing up was to be a sportswriter. I made that happen. Until recently, I worked for San Francisco Dugout, an online magazine that covered the Giants minor league system from top to bottom. I was there for nearly seven years and that's where I learned everything I know. 


We enjoyed a strong relationship with most of the media personnel among the Giants' minor league affiliates, including the Advanced-A San Jose Giants. If you'll allow me an extended metaphor, I had a sort of sportswriting residency in San Jose. I did the majority of my work in San Jose over my seven years with SF Dugout.


SF Dugout job helped me get a gig writing the California League notebooks for minorleaguebaseball.com, which was my first real paying job in the business. I've been doing that since 2009 and it's allowed me to open up to a new style of writing. I write stories about up-and-coming prospects, players with interesting stories, and whatever else is worth reading about in the Cal League.


Last year I joined the A's blog on ESPN.com's Sweet Spot network, Baseballin' on a Budget. You can read that blog here: http://baseballinonabudget.com/ I don't write often, but I cover the A's minor league system all by myself. It was the best way for me to learn about a new organization and I have enjoyed my time there quite a bit.


This August the guys at Bay City Ball, the Giants blog on Sweet Spot, brought me on board to handle their minor league stuff. Here we are: http://www.baycityball.com/


So this journalism thing isn't new to me. Or so I thought.


I came here through InteRDom, an internship program sponsored by the Dominican government that brings students to the D.R. to develop brilliant minds in a global society. We're here to show the world that the D.R. has more to offer than tourism. So what the hell am I doing here, telling stories about one of the few things that everyone knows about this place?


I still feel like my dream job hasn't arrived. I want to write about baseball and get paid well enough to support myself and my family, which right now is just me and my boyfriend Sam. While I've worked hard enough to earn such a job in the business, it's not my time yet.


So, rather than wait around for my time, I decided to enrich myself, challenge myself, and learn something new. I'm here in the D.R. to learn about how baseball works here. I know how it works in the States. I want to know more than just what I can read in a box score. I want to know the stories of the people in it and the stories of the people who love it just as much as I do.


I also followed a lifelong dream of studying abroad and writing in another language. I've always been fascinated by cultures and languages and societies other than my own. For a while I had a boner for Japanese culture. A few years of Japanese language classes and too much money spent on English translations of manga volumes, I let that go. I retained an appreciation for geisha culture, but that's about it.


I knew that to hang onto the allure of cultural studies, I needed to get serious about it. I made a career objective to become fluent in Spanish and to understand the Latin American perspective as best as I could. After all, Latin Americans are the largest non-American group in MLB and those numbers are even higher in the minors, which is my forte. Dominicans by far make up the largest section of the Latin American baseball population, and the LA population makes up more than half of the total in the minors.


I also know I'm not a finished product as a writer and a journalist. I came here to learn a different style of writing. All my professors say my academic writing is strong, but I've been dinged more than a few times for writing too tersely or too matter-of-factly, "like a journalist," in the words of my favorite polisci professor. I'd give the guy more crap for saying that, but he knows me pretty well and he knows I'm a journalist.


My articles here will be no more than 500 words. I'm the kind of writer who hates word counts. Not because I can't fill a page. It's because I can't shut up. 500 words to write about Epy Guerrero's contributions and impact on MLB? I'm tearing my hair out just thinking about how to condense that to 500 words. I could easily go 1500-2000 words on such a subject.


Part of learning to be a good writer is to write concisely, I suppose. I've just never been asked to do it.


When it came time to decide where to go for my study abroad semester, I had some difficulties. I could have gone to Puerto Rico and studied at UPR as an exchange student, focusing on voting rights and congressional representation for the US territory. I could have gone to Nicaragua to study in Managua and write a book about Dennis Martinez (you know, the first and only pitcher born outside of the US to throw a perfect game). I could have gone to Mexico and gotten capped or sold into slavery and forced to work as a coke mule. I kid. Not really. 


I didn't know the D.R. was an option.


That was until my advisor looked me in the eye and said, "why aren't you going to the Dominican Republic?" He asked me like I'd just told him the sky was green. The answer was so obvious to him. It wasn't to me. Before we found InteRDom through one of his contacts, I was getting ready to spend a year of my life in Puerto Rico.


And no offense to PR, or Nicaragua, or even to Mexico. Everything I'm doing here in Santo Domingo just makes sense. I'm so glad I never settled for one of the other options, even though it was a bitch and a half to get here.

But that, mis amigos, is another story for another day.


Thursday I'm visiting the Mirabal sisters museum, a memorial to a group of sisters who stood up to Rafael Trujillo in the 1950s and 1960s. Trujillo is the D.R.'s greatest monster and he definitely ranks up there among the biggest bastards in history. More pictures will come from that trip. 

Some things are universal/Algunas cosas son universales

One of the first lessons I learned in my global studies classes at San Jose State was that things are universal. I took that to mean that we share the world as a system. Economies work together (and sometimes don't, shutting out poorer economies, but hey, that's just business and it proves my point). McDonald's is everywhere. We even have cognates between languages; words that are spelled and pronounced the same way (or very close to it) and that have the same meaning. Like universal.

Last night I learned that some things, like hanging out, don't differ much over here. Indhira and I went to the 'hood, pretty far from our comfy bubble in the nice part of town, to kick it with some of her friends.

Getting there was an adventure in and of itself. Traffic was hell, though not for the usual reasons of a million people rushing in opposite chaotic directions. We drove right into a parade/rally supporting presidential candidate Danilo Medina. People were crammed into the beds of pickup trucks, yelling their support and waving purple flags. Some whizzed by on motorcycles with flags. There was a marching band and everything.

I'll break here to explain a few things about Dominican politics. Purple is the color of Danilo's party, Partido de la Liberación Dominicana. It's basically a two-party system here, with Danilo and Hipólito Mejía representing Partido Revolucionario Dominicano. The party's color is white. And instead of referring to candidates by their last names, they are referred to by their first names. 

I really wanted to take a picture of the rally/parade, but it was all asses and elbows in terms of how packed the streets were, and people here aren't exactly demure. One guy reached into the car window to (presumably) shake my hand. I just gave him a shy smile and kept my hands in my lap. Whipping out a camera in that mess would have meant I come home down one camera. Plus we were moving at a crawl, and I wouldn't get good image quality as we bumped over the poorly paved streets.

We arrived at a colmado, which I described once before as a corner store type thing. This colmado had music blaring (salsa, bachata, and merengue), people flowing in and out, and tons of people hanging out on the sidewalk in front. There was a table for dominoes. Everyone had beer. Indhira brought her hookah. We danced--well, they danced actual salsa and merengue steps. I just kinda shook my ass all around. It was a lot like the parties I attend in the States, just with more dancing and better music.

And when I say everyone, I mean everyone. The entire neighborhood turned out, from kids to grandparents. We dined on some street food, particularly this delicious thing made with green platanos and hot sauce that was to die for. 

It was like this on almost every corner and every street in that neighborhood. Neighbors all know each other and hang out. It's a stark contrast from my building in the States; I live in a renovated Victorian house that's been split into four apartments. I've met two of the other apartment tenants (two couples) only once and all I know of the other tenants is that they're complete jackasses who slam doors and scream swear words in the middle of the night, and who call the cops on our cable guy for being parked in a red zone. 

I digress. It had a point. Americans are jerks, Dominicans are cool. Let's continue.

The whole evening was so chill. It was perfect for me, to get out and relax and see a side of the city that I haven't yet seen. I didn't come to the Dominican Republic to sit in my room in my fancy apartment. I came to see what this country is all about.

I didn't take a lot of pictures from last night, mostly because I don't want to treat the people here like they're part of some National Geographic documentary. I respect them enough not to run around with a camera and snap pictures like I'm at the zoo. 

The whole evening was the best night since I got here, and I'm glad I got to go out and see more of the country I still know so little about. I also took a lesson from the night. I'm going to go out and live. I will be bad at Spanish.  Nike put it best when they said, "just do it." I just did it last night, and I ended up having the time of my life.

Epy and me/Epy e yo

I'm writing this on a Saturday evening, sitting on the couch in my living room watching clouds roll in from the east. I can tell when the storms are coming; my view of the sea gets hazy when the cloud cover comes in.


It's a perfect evening for stories. The best story of my two weeks here, and possibly of my entire voyage here, was meeting Epy Guerrero. I knew of Epy before I came to the D.R., although I did not entirely understand what he did here. I knew he was a baseball scout and was a tremendous resource for my research.


Upon meeting Epy, I leaned that he is the most influential scout of the last 40 years of baseball in North America. He built the Toronto Blue Jays teams that won back-to-back World Series titles in 1992-1993, signed and developed numerous stars in Major League Baseball for Toronto, Milwaukee, and Houston, and continues his work as an independent scout in the D.R. today. Among his pupils and others who benefitted from his work: Carlos Delgado, Tony Fernandez, Damaso Garcia, Pat Borders, Jose Mesa, Roberto Alomar, Alcides Escobar, and Pat Gillick. Yep, Gillick the Hall of Fame executive. Gillick made it to Cooperstown because of the embarrassment of prospect riches presented to him by Epy's scouting work. Epy is in the Dominican Sports Hall of Fame and has received many scouting awards.


I met him for the first time at his training complex, far removed from the city and into an untamed world I could only imagine before. We drove on an unpaved road and over a dangerous land bridge to make it to the baseball grounds. Before this my most harrowing reporting assignment was running up and down the concrete stairs at San Jose Municipal Stadium in California. Traipsing through the jungle and maneuvering over the scary land bridge is my version of crossing the first threshold, if you're following this story as a version of The Hero's Journey. It kinda fits.


Immediately I was led to one of the diamonds on the grounds, where a baseball game was already in progress. You can tell where my priorities are, because my gaze was drawn to the tall, thin right-hander on the mound, throwing harder than I can recall seeing in person and popping the catcher's mitt loudly. He had a 3/4 arm slot and good late movement on his breaking stuff. 


(I don't know how to simplify that for the non-baseball inclined readers, aside from saying the pitcher threw impressive fastballs, has a semi-low release point for his pitches, and has a good curveball. I fancy myself a scout. Just be glad I didn't refer to his slider as a "slide piece.")


Epy introduced everyone around him before he introduced himself. I met some coordinators at the camp, some assistants, and a scrawny yellow lab, whom Epy introduced as another advisor.


I was asked to sit down and explain why I was here, something that made me really uneasy. Not because I have problems talking about myself. If you've read anything prior to this entry, you know that. I learned a long time ago never to turn your back on a baseball game, especially not when the pitcher throws so hard I could hear the ball whistling through the air. That's a good way to get a knot on your head.


Epy took me to the house on the property, decorated in lush furniture and family photographs. Then we went to a room in the back of the house, where he took me on a tour of his 40 years in the business. The walls were covered in pictures of Epy and his kids, articles about Epy's work, and plaques honoring him for his kids and his work. The room had trophies and awards and memorabilia on almost every inch of the floor. 


It was the greatest room in the history of mankind.


Epy supplemented the tour of the room with stories attached to almost everything I stood gawking at. He bubbled over with excitement showing me everything. He gave me several articles and pictures to take home with me. I earned his respect by correctly identifying some of the men in his pictures. 


When we got down to brass tacks, the real reasons why I'm here, aside from roll around in baseball and call it academic research, Epy gave me almost more than I can handle. Almost. There's already a ton of information to sift through and we've only met twice.


He invited me to his home in Santo Domingo for the following day, to celebrate his wife's birthday. This time it was a lot different. More informal. I was integrated into the family. I met two of Epy's sons, who both work as scouts in the D.R. They fed me asopao, a ridiculously rich Dominican stew that's sort of like pozole. And then we took a tour of another room of Epy's stuff, where I snapped pictures and got more stories.


You can see the pictures from Wednesday afternoon here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150288940411373.332029.731621372&l=182ded7084&type=1


It was a huge departure from how I usually work. In my usual journalism assignments in the States, I spend about five minutes with my interview subject. We meet in a public place in the open, usually the dugout. And that's only in the case of in-person interviews, which I'd say I do maybe half the time. I've always felt it necessary to keep a distance from those I talk to in my work.


This time, I chatted with Epy over asopao for over an hour. He introduced me to everyone at the party, all his family members, and told them who I was, where I was from, and what I was doing here. He took extra care to tell his grandchildren that I am American; some of his grandkids speak English fluently. 


The whole thing made me a little uncomfortable, because I was out of my element. I'm an efficient machine when it comes to banging out a story, but when it comes to getting to the heart of a really good story like what Epy can teach me, I guess I need more work on that.


I also felt awkward because I have trouble being integrated into a group. Like I talked about in previous posts, I don't understand why someone I just met would be so kind to me and eager to know me. I had an instant big loud boisterous Dominican family on Wednesday, and I was there just doing my job.


Epy is like the awesome Dominican abuelo I never had. I can tell his naturally a vivacious person, but I could tell he was eager and excited to talk to me about everything he knew.


I'm not discussing details of what he told me here. I'm saving that for my articles, which will be published in early October, most likely. They will have qualities of both academic and journalistic writing. I'll post links to those works when they are published.


As I wrote this entry, the rain started falling. It's a gentle rain and the air is cool and fresh outside. The moisture on the palms lining my street shine under the street lamps. It doesn't relate to my story of how I met Epy Guerrero at all, but I felt like it was a nice way to end my day with you.

Something (really) old/Algo (muy) viejo

Monday was my trip to La Zona Colonial, the section of Santo Domingo that was the first settlement in the Americas. I had to resist the urge to title this post First!


I took a million pictures, running around like a tourist fool for the first time since I got here. I have a public link to the Facebook album here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150286566621373.331592.731621372&l=4c8d415b83&type=1

We took a walking tour with a few different guides, all who spoke Spanish at my insistence. I didn't understand our main tour guide completely, but I got about 2/3 of what he said. Our guide for the Catedral  de Santa María de la Encarnación was easier to understand and I learned a ton of cool stuff about the joint. It was the first cathedral built in the Americas. Even to a non-Catholic, that place is stunning.

I didn't catch everything that was taught to me. Instead of breaking my ass to figure out the who/what/where/when/why of nearly 200 photos, I brought the pictures up to my history prof at UNIBE. He loved my idea of sharing the pics in class and discussing the sites. I figured if anyone knew what was going on, he would. It's a future class project. That's turning a frown in the form of a still crippling language barrier upside down.

I shouldn't say that my inability to communicate freely in Spanish is crippling. On the contrary. I feel like I understand more and more each day. I'm to the point now where I can listen to most people speak and I can hear the words they say. I don't know what each word means, but it's not just a jumble of impossibly fast noise anymore. I suppose I'm in the word salad stage. 

As for my speaking, it's getting there. Over the weekend I went to the coast with my roommate, where we drank beer, ate fine food, and I took pictures of the Caribbean Sea like a noob. Those pictures are here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150284665336373.331083.731621372&l=07420e3668&type=1

On our walk home we stopped by the ice cream shop near our place and met a cute boy working there. Quite honestly I'm surprised that I haven't met that many cute boys here. This boy working at the ice cream shop took an interest in me because I swim. He told me he swims, too. I told him that Indhira does doggy paddle (by mimicking the dog paddle motion with my hands) and he asked "¿perrito?" Then when I asked him for some vanilla ice cream he told me to get something better, to which I said "no es aburrido" (it's not boring).

I guess I'm getting good enough with Spanish if I can tease my roommate and defend my ice cream choices.

Anyway the ice cream here is amazing and puts everything in the US to shame. SHAME. I had tres leches ice cream from Helados Bon. Bon also offers hand packed pints with three flavor options; I got chocolate brownie, tres leches, and vanilla. Jesus Joseph and Mary. Best ice cream ever.

As much fun as I had over the weekend and on Monday I can't think of anything except my visit to Sr. Epifiano Guerrero, the most respected and successful baseball scout in the Dominican Republic. I was whisked away on the freeway to his training complex to the north of the city to get an introduction to what I'm really doing in this country.

After only a few hours with Epy, I was extremely humbled by his body of work, as well as his enthusiasm and interest in me. He's like the cool Dominican abuelo I never had. He pulled out all kinds of old articles and pictures to show me and was bubbling with excitement the whole time.

It wouldn't do justice to the magnitude of this connection to write about one afternoon with Epy. I'm going back to his home, also on the complex grounds, tomorrow to learn more and celebrate his father's birthday. El padre is 100 years old. I don't know how these Dominicans do it. Must be all the Helados Bon.

People are people/La gente es la gente

I planned this post for a later date with the intent of observing more about Dominican culture and the way people behave with one another and with me. I don't think I need more time here to understand that Dominicans are pretty cool people.

In my week here, with 14 weeks ahead of me here, I've seen the best and worst of human nature between my two worlds. In America, I've experienced first-hand the worst of human nature: selfishness, rudeness, and hatred. In the DR, I've experienced first-hand the best of human nature: compassion, generosity, and acceptance. My peers in my home nation have treated me badly. My peers here treat me kindly, and they barely know me.

I have to admit to being foolish in thinking that the people in the Dominican Republic would be different from those in the US. I've found that here, we're all just people. We work. We attend school. We dance, laugh, eat, speak, and do everything that humans do. We share a world. So we're not so different in that, but we're different in how we relate to one another and how we treat each other.

I've experienced profound disrespect in the US. Someone's always there to tell me I'm wrong, with scorn. Someone's always there to put me down. In a word, haters. And yes, they are going to hate.

This is a stark contrast to the Dominicans I've met. I make mistakes daily here, beyond just the language. They're here to help me when I get words wrong or when I don't understand how to do something here. In America, there's a myth that there are no stupid questions. Rude responses to questions can leave you feeling stupid for asking, and deter you from seeking help again. Often times, seeking help is seen as a weakness in America.

Here, no question is stupid. A question is just another human interaction, a chance for connection and communication. Dominican kindness is abundant.

What blows my mind is that in the States, I am well known for what I can do. Especially in my work and my academics. And yet I've run into more than a few people who refuse to believe that I'm credible, or who behave like I'm an ignorant worm because I don't know all the things that they know. The Dominicans I've met don't even know what I can do. They don't know that I love baseball and I'm here to learn their game from them. They don't know that the beating of my heart moves in time with Latin jazz. They don't know that I'm fascinated by this region and if they'll let me, I'll dedicate my life to understanding them better and making the world understand them better. But they will know. Or maybe they already know why I'm here. Maybe they can see the eagerness to learn and to embrace a new culture and they're already responding to that.

I know that it's not perfect here. I'm sure if I looked hard enough, I could find examples of hatred and selfishness. But what I know is, I just be myself wherever I go. In the States, that's not good enough. Here, it's exactly what they want and need from me.

It leaves me to wonder why I should go back to a place that doesn't want me. Or, why I should go back to a place that only wants me so the people can feed on my fear and anger.

I'll tell you, if it weren't for the fact that I have a good job, a journalism career, my boyfriend, and a year-long lease in the States, I wouldn't be breaking my neck to go back. But those leases are a bitch to get out of.

The beginning, Part I: The woman/El comienzo, parte uno: la mujer

Nothing eventful happened today. I had history class again. We got a new student, a Dominican-American from New York (quel surprise). There was a rainstorm. Standard procedure in the DR.

These days where nothing new happens are the perfect days to write about the backstory of how I made it to the DR. Believe it or not, I choose the titles of my posts carefully for two reasons. One, because I have a Spanish translation for each one, and two, because I fancy myself a witty and sharp writer.

I chose not to lump these posts under the prologue tag. These stories are more than a set-up. They're their own chapters.

Part I of the beginning concerns who I  am, because my personality, experiences, and background have had the strongest influence on my decision to come to the DR.

I'm a first generation college student and I can claim half of a Mexican-American heritage. That's not so uncommon, but it's celebrated around my school. Apparently it's a big deal when Hispanics go to college.

I have put myself through school from day one. I mentioned that I'm 29 and I'm still in undergrad. I started   community college when I was 20 and I worked full time. I attended classes at night while working in an office doing clerical work. I also supported my grandmother from 2000-2009, when she passed away.

I didn't always take school seriously. I screwed around the first two years of CC and cut classes. I never really thought I would make it past the first few years, so I just gave up.

I went into college as a broadcast journalism major and I was hellbent on changing the world, one baseball broadcast at a time. I was going to be a play-by-play announcer. I was going to represent women in the business and crush all the men.

As you can see, none of these things happened. I fell out of love with broadcasting and I focused on writing. I got a few opportunities to write about sports on the internet, back before blogs and e-zines were a big deal like they are now. Por ejemplo, there was a cute boy I flirted with in my English class, about a year and a half before I transferred to San Jose State. One of our conversations went like this:

Cute Boy: You're a good writer.
Me: Thanks, I write for SFDugout.com.
Cute Boy: Wait a website?
Me: Yeah.
Cute Boy: That's nothing. Websites aren't real.
Me: :|

Cute boy was no longer cute after that.

Writing for those websites, "real" or not, made me realize that I had to do something. I had to stop screwing around and finish school if I wanted to be a writer. So I got my shit together, went to class, and transferred to San Jose State in the Fall of 2009, a few months after my grandmother passed away.

My grandmother's passing was a monumental shift in my life. I admit that I wasn't the model granddaughter/caretaker for her. I let the stresses of working 10 hours a day, attending classes a few nights a week, and building a journalism career boil over and I took it out on her often. Once she got really sick, our relationship basically fell apart.

Then she died and I suddenly had nowhere to go. We lost our house. I was a few months away from knowing if I was accepted to San Jose State. I lived with friends for about six months that summer and prepared myself for what was next.

I started San Jose State as a junior three years ago, where I am a global studies major and a journalism/Spanish minor. I like to joke that I picked GS at SJSU because it has no transfer requirements or prerequisite classes. What really drew me to the program was that it offered a wide open course of study and let me control what I wanted from my degree. I wanted to see more than what was in front of me. I wanted to learn about the world and be a part of something bigger.

There goes the idealist college student crap. I started this college exercise thinking I could change the world. Now that I'm in my third year of my studies at SJSU, with six years of CC behind me, eight years of taking care of someone else, and 29 years of struggling to make it, I'm focused on getting paid.

They tell me that international students have a career edge. I bought into it. That's part of the reason why I'm here in the DR. I really do enjoy living in a new culture and seeing the world but every day I'm here is a day I hope I can come back to the US, graduate, get into a good grad program, and make a good life with my intellect and hard work.

My grandmother was by biggest fan. She always supported me and was so proud of me when I got good grades, when I was first published on the web, and when I made strides in my journalism career. She's been gone for two years and I miss her all the time. There are times when I wish I could talk to her and share the last two years of my life with her, but I know I had to let her go to focus on my own life. Otherwise none of this would be happening.

It took me four years to get to the Dominican Republic, from the day I sent my application to San Jose State to today. Long stories take a long time to write.

Tomorrow is my first class meeting of Analysis of Current Dominican Issues. Potential for more school stories.

The city/La ciudad

I used the cliche "When in Rome" in my last post. I wonder if anyone has stopped to think and expand the cliche and make it something meaningful. Like today, when I did the second part of the public transportation tutorial, and like other days I've been here when I see the similarities and differences between San Jose, California, and Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic.

Today my internship people took me around the metropolitan area of Santo Domingo on various forms of transit that I've mentioned before: the metro, a guagua, and a carro publico. First, we took the metro. It's very new, opened in 2009, and the cars look almost exactly like the cars on the VTA light rail in San Jose.

I'm a veteran of public transit. I got my drivers license in 2008 when I was 26, the same weekend that The Dark Knight came out in theatres. The second thing I did with my freshly minted license was drive myself to the movie. The first thing I did was back up over a curb at the Boys and Girls Club near my old house and have a panic attack before fleeing.

That digression has a point. Really. Before I drove everywhere, I practically lived on BART, a subway-esque system in the San Francisco Bay Area. I took BART to work, school, baseball games, and everywhere else I wanted to go.

I was impressed with the metro in Santo Domingo. It meets with my approval. Clean, efficient, air conditioned, and cheap--fifty pesos a ride.

Next it was the carro publico. It's a cross between a taxi and a bus. That's the best way I can explain it, because the carros are regular old cars that run on fixed routes on main roads in the metro area and often times you can find a group of them waiting for passengers on certain corners and streets. What makes them different from taxis is that six passengers cram into a car, typically a smaller model Honda or Toyota, and the driver doesn't leave until he has six passengers. Two in front, four in back. And they can be six completely different people. When you want to get out, you let the driver know and you just bail out as soon as you stop.

The guagua is the bus, similar to the carros in poor quality of the vehicle, in the amount of people crammed in, and that they both take fixed routes. I saw the cobrador in full effect while on the guagua. The cobrador is a guy who hangs out the door of the bus telling people to get on. When the guagua stops the cobrador walks around asking people where they want to go, and if his guagua can get them there, he tells them to get on the bus. Then he runs after the bus, gets on, and repeats the process all over again at another stop.

I gotta say, we could use cobradors in the States.

I've been out in traffic a few times now, both as a passenger in carros and guaguas and private cars, and as a pedestrian. The traffic here is a free for all with several cars side by side in one lane, speeding, completely ignoring traffic signs and signals, and blaring horns. But it moves. Sometimes I think I'd rather deal with the complete clusterfuck of traffic here over sitting on a Bay Area freeway without moving for 40 minutes (I'm looking at you, 680). And it drives me insane when people honk at me while I'm driving in the States. Here, I accept the constant honking as the way things are.

Guagua and carros publicos are typically pretty cheap, around 25-50 pesos depending on where you go.

We walked home after our public transit tour we passed by a colmado, the corner/liquor stores I described before that deliver. I got a green apple soda and Spongebob Squarepants Cheetos. I bought the Cheetos just because Spongebob was on the bag. I love SBSP. They turned out to be really delicious, completely unlike Cheetos I've had in the States. Oh and Spongebob is called "Bob Esponja" here.

This amuses me.

The colmados and bodegas on the corners are things I'd die to have in San Jose. The best we can get is 7-11. While 7-11 can save my life at 3am, I want more. I've seen a world where I can have more, and where I can have it delivered to me for an extra 20 pesos. How can I live a different life now?

A few blocks down the street from our apartment there's a statue of someone whom I can't remember. Forgive me. In the context of famous Dominicans, it's not Trujillo, Duarte, the Mirabel sisters, Leonel Fernandez, Oscar de la Renta, or David Ortiz, chances are I don't know who it is yet.

The man honored at the statue may not be important. What caught my eye about the statue was a single Red Vine on the corner of the square base, lined up at a perfect angle. I saw another at a different corner of the base, then another, and one more. Someone had place a Red Vine at perfect angles on each of the corners of the base. I decided it was a tribute to the man I couldn't identify. At least someone thinks he's important enough to be honored with candy.

Big weekend ahead, with a film festival event at FUNGLODE and a real honest possibility to meet the president of the DR, Leonel Fernandez. Indhira and I might go out Friday or Sunday night. Then MONDAY is our trip to La Zona Colonial and I'm beside myself with excitement about that.

With a little help from my friends/Con un poco ayuda de mis amigos

When I arrived in Santo Domingo, I felt really alone. I have my friend Ezra Fieser, the freelance journalist living here, but he was the only person I knew here. He was the first person I met other than FUNGLODE employees. I hadn't even met my housing coordinator, my internship coordinator, nada.

As you read here, I was confused, angry, upset, sad, and lost. I really toned down my despair over my first three days here in the blog posts. I've cried every day since I've arrived, and I've been told that won't go away for a while. It even happened today, and I've felt really good about stuff the last few days.

Monday morning I met my roommate, Indhira. She was born in the Dominican Republic and moved to the States when she was 13. She just finished up her undergrad degree at City College of New York in international relations and political science. She's doing an internship in government here before she heads back to NY to begin her graduate program. She's fluent in English and Spanish.

Indhira has saved my life. She immediately took care of me and has helped me so much. She walked me to the grocery store and helped me pick stuff out. Since Monday, she's given me tons of advice and pointers on how to live here. Just having her around has helped put me at ease.

Monday night we ordered ice cream from a colmado, which is a delivery service that will bring damn near anything you could want. They brought it right to our door. Just like that. And the ice cream, OMFG. So good. Today her uncle drove us to the bank, where I got pesos for the first time (!) and I asked her to show me where real Dominican food was. She took me to a criollo/Chinese place. Criollo is a word that describes Dominican food. I had chowfan--fried rice. But it tastes different (read: better) than regular bad Chinese food fried rice. Let's be clear. I love Panda Express. That's the kind of bad Chinese food I'm talking about. This Chinese/criollo stuff is ten times better than that. Everyone eats there, so it's Dominican. I was expecting rice and beans and stuff, but hey. When in Rome. Plus I got a big-ass plate of food for 180 pesos, which is like $2 US.

At first I was really wary of how kind she was to me, right off the bat. But I've learned over the last few days that Dominican people are kind and helpful by nature. If you show you give a shit about the people here, try to communicate, and show respect for the culture, they will be there for you. I'm suspicious of people showing me kindness to begin with, which is predicated by my low self-esteem and screwed up relationship with my family. Sometimes, especially right now, I can't fathom how anyone could want to be my friend, or care about me, or love me. So it blew my mind that this girl I met a few days ago is genuinely interested in helping me and expects nothing from me in return but friendship and kindness.

I made dinner for us Monday night. She's making dinner for us tonight. I like this arrangement.

I've met kind and helpful people at FUNGLODE and InteRDom as well. They've been super helpful with getting me used to life here. They say my Spanish is really good and encourage me to practice. I still feel stupid when I can't keep up with them, but everyone assures me that I'm doing okay.

I'm not quite as lonely anymore. I miss my boyfriend every day and I talk to my friends in the States when I can. It's just nice to know I have people here who really care about me and want to help me and want me to do well.

I am embarrassed because I feel like the retarded cousin here. I'm scared to ask for help because I think they'll reject me. I know they won't, because they've proven that they won't. But the fear exists. It's why I cry every day I'm here.

I didn't intend to end this entry on a sad note. I didn't intend this entry to be sad in the first place. Things are going well here but my emotions are running amok and it's a lot to handle.

Tomorrow I have another workshop on public transit. Friday and Saturday I have class. That's it for the week's activities, but more stories are to come in the next few days.

First day of school/Mi primer día de escuela

This week is full of orientation events at FUNGLODE. Today was my public transit tutorial and my first day of school.


The public transit tutorial taught me about ways to get around in Santo Domingo. Guaguas are crappy buses crammed with people, with a guy (cobrador) hanging out the door telling people to get on the bus. They drive fast, don't obey traffic lights, and they don't have AC. And yet, they're one of the most popular forms of transit around here. I've seen loads of people gather to get on a guagua and I've seen tons of people get off of one on the main road near my apartment.


Then there are the public cars (carros públicos), again, shitty old beater cars in worse shape than my old Honda that finally died last month. These cars go around and pick people up and take routes with some stops on main roads. They often have brightly painted roofs and bear a sign on the driver side door telling you they're legit. But they're not necessarily safe. They typically drive with the driver, two passengers in the front, and four in the back. And these are not big cars. Again, fairly popular.


Another option is the metro, a subway/light rail system that goes only around the city. I'm used to BART in the Bay Area and light rail in Santa Clara County (where I'm from the States), and the metro seems like BART's retarded baby. We're doing another transit tutorial later in the week where we will experience the metro.


None of these options are too expensive in pesos. Not even taxis are that pricey here, if you're just going around the city.


I didn't take any public transit to school today. I walked to UNIBE with my roommate and my housing coordinator this morning. I walked home alone, confident that I could find my way. I did. What I found along the way was that walking here is like an interactive version of Frogger. Drivers don't stop. They don't obey signal lights. They'll go through the intersection. You basically have to wait until the traffic itself stops because no cars can move, then you start crossing. 


I made it home just fine. In the ten minutes I spent walking, about ten different guys whistled at me and/or said suggestive things. From what I understand, that's just the way it is here. Such a thing would outrage me in the States--both the act of sexism and the blase reaction to it--but here, it's kinda like the Dominican version of "LOL U MAD?" 


Oh right, school. I was supposed to be talking about school. I had my first class today, Dominican History. My professor is Sr. Nelson Sanchez, a Dominican who lived in the US attended Washington State University for his undergrad degree in engineering. He works here as an engineer and has worked on several construction projects. 


The class itself is tiny. There are three of us--a young woman from France, a Haitian-American from Miami, and me. The class is taught in English and Sr. Sanchez's English is excellent. We spent most of the time today talking about the tobacco trade, how that relates to Haiti and the Dominican Republic and their discord through history, and Spanish colonization. It was very informal and geared toward discussion. I love it. We will take field trips around the country to see important historical sites as well.


Before I went to class, I met with the international student life coordinator at UNIBE. She gave me a quick rundown of the school and told me to come to her with any problems or questions. It was like the first day at a new school, way back in elementary school. I had someone walk me, I had to meet the principal, and my baby-sitters said goodbye and good luck to me.


UNIBE is La Universidad Iberoamericana, one of the most prestigious universities in the country. Their medical school is among the best in the nation. For some reason, my classes at UNIBE are taught to the med students, so I get to attend classes on the 10th floor of the main building, a completely posh air conditioned paradise with an even more stunning view of the Caribbean Sea than what I have at my apartment. And my view is pretty damn spectacular. I will get to my digs here in another post, I promise.


The best part of the past few days is that I feel more confident, both in Spanish and in getting around here. My Spanish still isn't the best, but I feel more comfortable with it. I can understand a little bit more each day. Today in class it felt almost odd to speak all in English. I'm used to at least stumbling over Spanish while someone corrects me--I asked them to do that. Anyone who hears me speaking incorrectly has carte blanche to correct me. How else can I learn?


Remember how I said I'd skip around a lot? Yeah. I can't even pretend to promise a linear format here. I still have to describe the agenda for my 15 weeks here, my roommate (who's solid gold awesome), and my apartment.


Tomorrow I have more workshops at FUNGLODE that will prepare me for business etiquette in the D.R. and a workshop on race and gender in the country, presumably addressing the LOL U MAD attitude about the creepers on the corners. I have history class again on Friday and then my first class meeting for analysis of Dominican issues on Saturday. Monday we're taking a trip to La Zona Colonial, the oldest part of the city with cool shit like Fortaleza Ozama, which was built in 1502.


¡Escribiré más mañana!