I’m the blue dot

I write from the island of Curaçao. It’s part of the Netherlands Antilles, otherwise known as the ABC islands in the Southern Caribbean. I spent a week in Aruba (the A in ABC) and then I hopped a small jet to Curaçao (the C).

Some refer to this 171 square mile dot in the ocean as “baseball island.” One hundred fifty thousand people live on the island, and there is a major league baseball player for every 21,000 inhabitants. For comparison, the Dominincan Republic, where I spent two months working for MLB at their unoffical Latin America headquarters, has one major leaguer per 125,000 residents. The United States meanwhile boasts one major leaguer for every 503,000.

This place is an odd, sunny, colonized crossroads located just 40 miles north of the Venezuelan coast. Many people think the island is part of Venezuela, so I startled a few adults and received a warnings before arriving here. It’s not Venezuela. Rather, it was a Dutch colony, and now it’s a constituent country of the Kingdom of the Netherlands.

After eight years of Spanish education, and the past three months in Spanish-speaking countries and territories, I am proud to say that I now, with some ease, stumble through Spanish conversation. While I approach bilingualism, most Curaçaoans are fluent in four languages: Papiamentu, Dutch, English, and Spanish. Some speak a fifth. Papiamentu is a Portuguese creole spoken by all permanent island inhabitants. While colonizing cultures often confine creole to the street and local inhabitants in a variety of Caribbean nations, Curaçao is one of the few places in the world in which a creole language plays a significant role in the colonized educational system. Papiamentu was not always incorporated into the Dutch curriculum. Rather, it was reinstituted into the schools in the Antilles in the 1980s, and since 1993, primary schools on the island use Papiamentu to teach literacy.

Since the moment I stepped off the plane, the multilingualism of this land adds tentative confusion to my lips. I constantly wonder whether to greet someone with “Que la que?” or “Wussup?” and I am not sure how one finally pops out. Though, because of overwhelming urge to separate myself U.S. tourists here, I find myself swaying away from using English.

“Did you just step off the [cruise] ship?” I am asked if I do initially speak to a stranger in English. On the other hand, if I begin in Spanish, once formalities are breached, and I say I am from California so begins an explanation of why I am speaking Spanish.

I say, “Es que ya pasé tres meses en la Republica Dominicana y Puerto Rico, por eso mi mente está en el modo de español.”

I am thinking seriously about my desire to distance myself from U.S. tourists and culture. If I speak in Spanish to new aquaintences, they often ask if I am from Brazil or Mexico, and it could simply be my subjective reality, but I feel as if I am treated more warmly than if I begin in English. If I begin in English, people assume I come from a cruise ship, or am staying at a resort, and thus begins my uphill battle to attempt to explain, that yes, I, a woman, am here alone, not in a tourist capacity, but rather as a researcher conducting a year-long investigation into international baseball.

Once I do conjure the courage to approach a stranger, my questions and hesitancy about whether to make English or Spanish sounding noises and about what type or response each will yield often leaves me filled with an outlandish wonder of where in the world I am. I’ve never stood without a clue of what language to speak to someone. This new feeling sometimes leaves me silent, without the will to breach a new dialogue. Though, for example, once Cedric Boekhoudt and I established the formalities, in which we speak mostly English, with Spanish thrown in, and I attempt to follow some of his Papiamentu, the sparked discourse flows differently than a conversation confined to language or culture. Our jumps between languages, cultures, and misunderstandings, and the constant wonder we hold and apply to whether or not we understand one another has led to deeper interpersonal understanding than I found in the Dominican Republic or Puerto Rico.  In D.R. and P.R., apart from the latin greeting of a kiss on the cheek, friends, coworkers, and strangers would often immediately speak English with me or ask me what I thought about Donald Trump’s campaign. Here, on this tiny island influenced by but not limited to Dutch, Latin, African, and American culture, my interactions move more slowly towards U.S.-centric questions about the 2016 presidential election or MLB’s ability to immediately halt World Series play two weeks ago when Fox’s broadcasting vehicle lost power.

In contrast to countries and territories I have visited thus far, MLB plays a tiny role in organizing and supporting baseball on this small Caribbean island. In both Puerto Rico and specifically the Dominican Republic, MLB provides infrastructure in Academies and player development and organization in summer leagues. Here on Curaçao, with MLB and other American companies influencing the culture to a lesser extent, my interactions with Cedric, his son Mani, and other organizers of Curaçao’s amateur baseball leagues, operate within cultures that are foreign to me. I am therefore willing to say that I finally feel far from home.

I end this post with a small anecdote that illustrates the size of this island. It is my hope that this post will serve as a spark for a few rapid-fire blog posts in the coming week. The work of processing, understanding, and putting words to my experiences does not roar along at the speed at which the internet moves and our world now operates.

As I was saying, this rock in the sea is tiny. That became clear when I was scorekeeping for a Senior League game between the Royal Scorpions and Santa Rosa Ennia on Saturday night at Tio Daou, and Cedric bumbled up to me with a “Bon noche!”

I am staying at a hostel here, and Annabel, a guest at the hostel, goes to church in Utrecht, Holland, with a cousin of Cedric. Thus, Annabel put me in touch with Cedric, and as the world runs on What’s App, I sent him a message. He read it, and moments later his phone broke. He had intended to help socialize me to baseball on the island, but he now had a broken phone and wondered if and when he would get back to me. Then, at Tio Daou on Sunday, he saw a young woman quietly keeping score and watching the game alone. He asked a few friends, “Do you know that girl?” And when no one at the stadium knew me, he walked up to me, with a “Bon noche, are you Emily?,” Cedric has since catalyzed my research on this island.

I have now met the MLB scouts for the Boston Red Sox, Cincinnatti Reds, Texas Rangers, and New York Mets, that live and work on the island. I participated in a training with professionally signed players yesterday (read: I played catch with the 10-year-old that attended the training). And, today, I will help Cedric and Elmer, two youth coaches, run a practice for eight and nine year old boys.