Afro-Latina writer Natalie Archibald Solano shares how the Dominican Republic’s complex racial history shaped her own ideas around identity and perception.
The moment I saw a young woman wearing a “Latinos for Black Lives Matter” t-shirt and another holding a sign saying the same on Instagram, I felt uncomfortable.
At first, I couldn’t quite place what about seeing the statement made me so uneasy but then it came to me: I realized that while “Latinos for Black Lives Matter” is a noble attempt of the Latinx community to be an ally in the resonant Black Lives Matter movement that has ignited the nation and highlighted the current plight of Black people in America, the sentiment–Latinos for Black Lives Matter–implies that Latinxs are distinct from Black people. It negates the existence of Black people within the Latinx community and implies that Latinxs aren’t part of a larger, marginalized community victimized by the police. “Latinos for Black Lives Matter” isn’t a movement but rather a statement of allyship, modeled after the ways other groups have adapted the slogan: i.e. “[insert group] for Black Lives Matter.”
The reality: we are a part of the Black Lives Matter movement; we shouldn’t just be “for” it. The Latinx community has always attempted to approximate itself to whiteness by denying its African roots while uplifting its Spanish and Indigenous ancestry — all the while dancing to drums heard in merengue, speaking Spanish with African syntax, eating African inspired foods like mangú, and celebrating carnivals (which were started by enslaved people to celebrate their spirituality, represent their culture and mock their captors). This cognitive dissonance has created a lot of self-hate and dissent in the Latinx community; how can you hate the very things you celebrate and embody?
Anti-black sentiment created a lot of segregation and discrimination (that Latin American countries will deny because we didn’t have Jim Crow laws) of Black Latinxs, leaving us feeling erased within the same culture our ancestors helped to create. Constantly struggling to reconcile our African roots with latinidad (a term used to describe the Latin American experience), we embraced the term “Afro-Latino” (and its newer iteration, Afro-Latinx).
“Afro-Latino” is a contemporary term traced back to as early as the 1900s, with a resurgence in popularity in the 2000s to the present day. The term acknowledges the African ancestry of Latin America but more than anything, gives an identity and voice to the marginalized Black people of Latin America.
This term is especially poignant to me as a Black Latina in America, where I struggled to find my place in a world that deemed me not Latina because of the color of my skin. I was confused as to why my Blackness-—which I recognize in the bachata and salsa that I dance to, the yams and stews I eat, and the family that I love, made me not Dominican. I know I’m Black, and I know that the world experiences me as a Black woman but why did that mean I couldn’t claim my Dominican heritage, too?
This constant battle of erasing Blackness in Latin America is highlighted in the Dominican Republic and, if I’m to be honest, the biggest battle for my identity has been with my own people. This struggle is a painful one, one that I’ve expected to encounter in white spaces. But when it comes from other Dominicans, it’s more difficult to swallow. Aren’t we supposed to be in this together?
As an Afro-Dominican woman, my identity has constantly been questioned and even denied:
“Where are you from?”
“I’m Dominican but I was born here.”
“No, you’re not. You’re Haitian or Black.” (Being called Haitian was an attempt to offend me since it’s perceived as the worst thing you can say to a Dominican).
“Yes, I’m Black but I’m Dominican.”
“No, you’re not Dominican.”
I’d change the topic or would end the conversation there. Eventually, I stopped claiming my Dominican heritage in public spaces. If a Latinx was struggling to speak English, I wouldn’t speak Spanish. And when I would speak, I made sure to suppress any “Latina” inflections in my speech.
It was painful to deny my heritage but it was the armor I had to build to protect my hurt. I felt that I was denying my mother, my upbringing and limiting my connection to others because I couldn’t be my full self.
With this attack on my identity, you can imagine my surprise when I landed in the Dominican Republic at 13-years-old for summer vacation, and all I saw were Black people! First thing I thought: “What the hell? Why do people make me feel like I’m the only one?” As a kid, I took things at face value, so I really thought I was an anomaly.
I was further confused when I first saw the infamous Muñeca Limé also known as la muñeca sin rostro (“the faceless doll”). Since the 1980s, this sculpture has been a cultural symbol of the Dominican Republic, a multiracial representation of the island’s African, indigenous, and European influences. For this very reason, I love and collect them. They are sold all over the island and are likely its most popular souvenir. But I wonder: how does a country that touts such an obvious embodiment of its African heritage still able to denigrate the parts of it that make it Black?
In order to reconcile this disconnect, I delved into my country’s history.
Enslaved Africans were first transported to the island of Hispañola – modern day Haiti and the Dominican Republic – in 1501; Haiti was occupied by the French and the Dominican Republic by the Spanish. While Haiti had a structured slave system, the Dominican Republic – unlike other Spanish colonies – didn’t, creating a less homogenous society thought to be better than their predominantly, Black Haitian counterparts. And imagine the resentment when Haiti occupied the Dominican Republic in 1822 (I imagine that’s where the phrase “Eso maldito negros” – those damn Blacks – came from).
Then came the dictatorship of Rafael Trujillo, who set forth a campaign to erase Blackness from the Dominican Republic despite being mulatto himself — historians say he might have even had Haitian ancestry. During his reign from the 1930s to the 1960s, he led a somewhat successful campaign that included elevating the country’s indigenous and Spanish roots and erasing its African ones; soliciting European immigrants to whiten the population; harboring Haitian genocide; and promoting propaganda that integrated Taino culture into the mainstream — going as far as determining people’s skin tone on an “indigenous scale” i.e. indio oscuro (“dark Indian”) and indio claro (“light Indian”). This indoctrination solidified the anti-Black sentiments and discrimination that exists in the Dominican Republic today.
This racist manifesto materialized itself most recently in 2015 when the country revoked birthright citizenship, enforcing a retroactive law (from 1929!) that stated anyone born to an undocumented parent of Haitian descent would have their citizenship revoked unless they could produce proof of legal citizenship – even if you were born in the Dominican Republic. In a country where documentation is often not issued or poorly catalogued, obtaining proof of birth is a difficult, if not, often, impossible task.
This ordinance has subsequently resulted in the deportation of 80,000 people and fanned the flames of hate and violence against Haitian-descendant Dominicans, and consequently Black Dominicans. Despite its almost 90 percent Black population (including non-whites and mixed race people of African ancestry), the Dominican Republic clearly has no intention in ending its terrorism on Haitians and on blackness.
These anti-Haitian and anti-Black sentiments have followed Dominicans to America, where we have earned a reputation for being the most anti-Black Latinxs. And while I don’t believe this is a precise designation, I do believe that the Dominican Republic is an exemplar of institutionalized and rampant historical attack on Latin American Blackness.
At 35 years-old, I’ve finally reconciled with my experience as a Black Latina in America. When my fellow compatriots would veto my Dominican identity, it was their attempt to scrub away their own proximity to Blackness. Denying me entry into la cultura was their way of reaffirming that there are no Black people in their country. My struggle with my Dominican identity is a long and storied one, but I’ve acknowledged that people’s perception of me was more a reflection of them, than of who and what I knew myself to be.
Ultimately, I get to be Dominican too – and that means being proud of my country of origin but also being allowed to be angry for our racist history. I no longer let others decide my story and erase me. Despite my complicated relationship with my people, I have been an active member of the Dominican community, aiming to represent both Black and Dominican excellence simultaneously.
Allowing others to shape their own perceptions of me would mean that I’d be denying that Spanish is my first language; that my mom doesn’t make the best habichuelas; that I dance merengue in the middle of the living room every Saturday; that my first job was at La Alianza Dominicana. Denying all this would mean I didn’t exist.
Today, I’m proud to say that I leave no space for people to question my identity. I have a quick, shady answer for those that try it. I’m happy to see a strong Afro-Latinx community flourishing and talking about the anti-Black plague in our community. I’m even more elated to see us winning and that we didn’t let the oppression of our anti-Black history crush our spirit, self-worth, and ambition. It’s a difficult road to maintain our dignity in the face of the overbearing monster that is racism but that’s what Black people—regardless of ethnicity—do: persevere.
Today’s movement and racial climate is evidence of the fact that Blackness prevails, and the Black Lives Matter movement should further unify us and crush the divisiveness in the Latinx community. We should accept our Blackness and reconcile the fact that it lives on a spectrum that doesn’t solely rely on how deeply pigmented our skin is.
Ultimately, we should all band together around the slogan “Black Lives Matter” because Blackness is intercontinental. Unfortunately, anti-Blackness is too. Whether we accept it or not, being Dominican— being Latinx— is to be Black. We are a part of la raza, not apart from it.
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Natalie Archibald Solano is a Bronx native and first generation Afro-Dominican. She is a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a niece, a friend, a community activist, a dancer, and an entrepreneur. She started Natalie Archibald Coaching + Consulting two years ago to help individuals and organizations create transformational coaching and marketing solutions. Natalie became an executive coach, specifically, to help women of color achieve their goals by offering support, resources and access that are not traditionally available to them. Before starting her business, Natalie worked in media advertising and marketing at The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal. You can learn more about Natalie on www.nataliearchibald.com and follow her @knicknatsbynat on Instagram.
