HENRY SUAREZ
Me, Black?
We were taught in my house that we had some African blood, but it was long ago. Dominicans, having been the first and longtime Spanish colony, had primarily Spaniard roots. By virtue of speaking Spanish, it seemed inarguable the contribution they had on our identity as a people.
As a Dominican-American growing up in a predominantly Dominican neighborhood, I never battled with my racial identity. The same typically holds true for those in the Dominican Republic. Colorism is a bigger factor for us than the discussion of race or ethnicity. We’re always ready to single out the darkest family member. The aim for many is to marry someone lighter to “limpiar la raza,” which literally translates to “cleanse the race.” For the most part, we accept that we’re of mixed African and European descent, with smaller amounts of indigenous blood. Some liberties are taken when assigning percentages to these mixes, often defying logic.
In the United States, race plays a much larger role. Our ignorance on matters of race, takes center stage in this new land.
My father tells the story of when he arrived in this country, he stepped into a local barbershop in what was mostly an Italian neighborhood at the time. He sat down to wait his turn, but was quickly alerted that they didn’t cut Black hair there, he had to go elsewhere to get that “shit” cut, they wouldn’t know what to do with it. In his twenty some odd years he had never been referred to as Black. Sure he was tan or trigeño as we call it in the Dominican Republic, but certainly not Black.
It took a white girlfriend in high school, for me to realize just how black I am. Upon meeting my parents, she felt compelled to tell me that it would be very difficult for her to have me over. I wasn’t in any rush to go visit but I found it odd and asked why that was? She told me that her parents and especially her father did not allow Blacks in their home. I figured I’m Dominican so what’s the issue? After a quick roll of her eyes, I decided to drop the conversation.
For prom, her father drove her to my building and waited until the limo came to pick us up. He was under the impression that I was a friend from school, so he allowed it. Two weeks later it was the day of our graduation. After the ceremony, many of us stuck around taking pictures with our family and friends. We had agreed to keep our distance so as not to anger her parents. On our way out of the venue, she came over and greeted my parents, and asked if I could come with her. Grabbing me by the hand, she led me over to her family. The father followed us with his eyes every step of the way. She introduced me as her boyfriend to the people there, her mother, grandmother, sister, and the sister’s boyfriend. I assume they were caught off guard and didn’t have the chance to vacate. The father though, walked away before we arrived. He stood about 10 feet away from us and just leered. She called on him to come over but he furled his eyebrows and just shook his head.
Certainly, these were the views of White America, they grouped together everyone who looks different. I was part of this greater Latino community, we had a shared language, and heritage. No matter the country of origin, we were one. I never questioned how some Latinos might view us, specifically me.
Until one day in a college lecture hall. Admittedly I was being obnoxious along with a few other guys. A row in front of us were two young ladies and after ignoring us for a few one of them turned and asked us to shush. She then turned to her friend and said “dios estos negros si joden” to which her friend replied, “si que molestia”. Their comment confused me because I looked at our group and we were all Dominican. Whom were these Black guys she talked about? Did they not hear us speaking in Spanish?
In the Dominican Republic, to be called Haitian is one of the gravest insults. My innocence as a child led me to wonder what the big deal was. Why deny ties to a nation that shares this tiny island? After all these years it would stand to reason that we would mix and there would be an overlap in lineage. Why deny something that seemed so obvious?
Sadly I had failed to see my error in what I was doing as well. At every turn, I was looking to keep a distance from being Black. Now I was the one denying what seemed so obvious to others. I used the excuse that I understood Black to be an interchangeable term for African-American. The truth is, I was looking for someone that would fall lower on the totem pole.
Similar to the One-drop rule here in the US, the Spaniards had established a social hierarchy in the Americas. Those of African ancestry fell into the lowest rung of the social ladder. They were forced into slavery or considered undesirables or untouchables. You would claim any ancestry that would help you avoid being a social outcast.
The Dominican Republic is rich in oral history. Storytelling is an integral element of our culture. These fabricated lineages get passed down through generations and with no paper trail to disprove them, we just accept them.
Conforming to the ideals of others is the reason we fought it for so long. We had been taught that to be Black was to be ugly, to be less than. The only way to be beautiful, to be smart, or to matter was to disregard your Afro roots.
Identifying as Afro-Latino wasn’t a thing when I was growing up, though I proudly embrace it now. Love for natural hair and protective styles wasn’t a thing among Dominicans, though I’m glad to see them here and in DR now. It took me years of learning and self-reflection to break out of the denial.
I recognize that I haven’t suffered the same treatment that many Black Americans have. I would be considered light-skinned and some might not agree with me identifying as Black, but that’s a topic for a different day. My history in this country is recent, but that doesn’t stop me from empathizing and standing with those that live with the pain. I’m not here to say I am more African or Blacker than anyone else, simply acknowledging what for so long, we never wanted to speak about. We are all outsiders in this country, only our stories differ slightly.
