When We Raise Our Flags
“There is no freedom in silence.”
– Steven Bantu Biko
Reflecting on the fact that we've reached a New Year, I can't help but think about how impactful 2022 was. Last year, Morocco became the first African nation to reach the semifinals of the world cup, Russia Invaded Ukraine, One of the deadliest floods in the world happened in Pakistan, and the longest-reigning monarch, Queen Elizabeth II passed. At the same time, I'd argue that the year was also one of the most impactful for Dominicans. The influence of Dominican music and culture on the world reached new heights with artists like El Alfa launching several viral dance challenges, and Bad Bunny (Puerto Rican) borrowing a lot of inspiration from our culture for his biggest album to date. Raul Lopez of Luar broke down doors in fashion, snatching the CFDA accessory designer of the year award and making the Time100 Next List. It's also hard not to forget a moment like when Tokischa and Madonna kissed in front of the world; It's proof that our culture is what’s “Pop”.
Looking back at the year, I have to say it's the first time in a long time that I felt proud to be Dominican; it was a year for those of us that hold tight to our Dominican roots to hold onto it just a bit closer.
But with this feeling of pride also comes discontent.
I can't help but wonder why it's so easy for many of us to dig into our Dominican roots and identity when it benefits us while remaining silent on the issues that affect our community back home. How can we bring in the New Year by celebrating with Bachata and Merengue and not celebrate, or even acknowledge, our ancestors who fought for our island's independence the very next day? How could we be so comfortable raising a Dominican flag when there is so much wrong with the Dominican identity and community? When there is so much wrong with how we treat our own…
It's been weeks since Dominican President Luis Abinader and his administration launched a mass deportation campaign against Haitian migrants, Dominicans of Haitian descent, and really anyone considered to be “Too Black”. Videos have circulated for weeks showing people being illegally detained and publicly beaten by mobs. A woman gave birth in front of a hospital because they wouldn't give her a bed; a violation of human rights and the very teachings of the Bible, as found on our flag.
The United States has issued a warning to Black Americans in fear that they too will be detained, and temporarily stopped importing sugar from La Romana due to allegations of forced labor aka slavery–an issue explored in the 2007 documentary "The Price of Sugar". Yet, there is silence from some of the most influential people in our community. At a time when our voices are finally being heard, there is silence on the issues that we have the greatest power to impact.
Reflecting on my upbringing, born in Santo Domingo and growing up in NYC, I can't help but wonder why it's been so difficult for many to speak up in a significant way against the atrocities happening back home.
I can't help but wonder why so many of my peers at the frontlines of influence in the Dominican culture, who have previously stood up in support of Black lives, remain relatively silent when it comes to colorism happening back home.
Some time ago, I decided to comment on a post and speak up against colorism in the Dominican Republic. My opinion received negative slurs from nationalists, with one reading the all too familiar: Shut up, you Dominican York.
If you grew up Dominican, then you already know what this means, a label placed on Dominicans living abroad, typically in NYC, by those on the island. It's commonly used as a lite tease to say that someone has adopted an American lifestyle abandoning their Dominican roots. More often, it's a way to minimize and reduce our views and cultural experience as being less authentic.
It's a way to say you're not Dominican enough.
Growing up in New York, It's a phrase I regularly heard during summer trips to D.R.–a phrase that I often shrugged off as just kids teasing. In our culture, we're taught from a very young age to have tough skin; You either take the joke and move on or snap back with a witty punchline. It's why I was conflicted reading the comments from Instagram users with private accounts and 0 followers–we all know trolls when we see them. I know it's gaslighting, but I couldn't help to think back at my experience growing up in the Bronx–all those trips over the years back home.
A lot has changed over the years for my family and me. We're far from economic wealth, but in many ways, we have more than nibbled at the American Dream. You know success in the states, even in the slightest way, can change the lives of our families back home and certainly for those of us visiting.
When we visit the Dominican Republic, we're no longer visiting the place we grew up knowing. We're like time travelers hopping between time zones.
Everyone that immigrates from D.R. to someplace else isn't necessarily doing so out of necessity, but for many, it's a shot at a better life. For many of us, the only homes that we've known in D.R. have existed in marginalized and underserved communities of Black and multiracial folk–mostly just people of a darker complexion.
It's been electrical outages, hearing your neighbors across the street yell out “Se fue la luz” (the light is out), and having to hide your valuables because, as we say, “Ahí están atracando” (they're robbing around the way). A very different reality than what we experience after achieving some minor success in the states.
Now when we visit, we stay at resorts to be greeted by the Venezuelan or Colombian immigrants of much lighter complexion that staff the hotels there–and if your family purchased one of those regularly advertised condos in an affluent neighborhood, you stay there instead. It's not that you're disconnected from the reality you've always known, but you aren't limited to just that. The dollar opens up doors that you would think never existed. It pierces through a vale exposing a side of the Dominican Republic that you didn't know before.
Beaches that were once public are now privatized and consumed by foreign development, but that's not a problem when you can afford to stay at the Spanish-owned Barceló Resorts or the Rennaisance hotels by Marriott. It's the sort of reality where you're not discriminated against by booking agents because you've booked your nights online in advance, securing your travel plans. It doesn't mean you won't experience discrimination at the check-in counter, but things are more likely to turn out alright compared to a local.
It's a realization that I came to understand one trip when a family friend, a native of a darker complexion, was profiled, harassed, and asked to leave the hotel lobby because they thought she looked suspicious. They thought she was a prostitute or thief because, in that reality, it's unfathomable for a Black woman to accompany a man of lighter complexion into a hotel for anything else. You complain, so they give you a free night, but it's something that stays with you forever. You remember the time when you weren't allowed in that club because of discrimination and the moment when you were because of discrimination.
It's a realization that you can no longer turn a blind eye to.
It's realizing that I have more access as a Jabao (high-yellow person) speaking to the staff in English than I do as the Dominican York that I am speaking in Spanish. I have more influence as an American with dollars on my homeland than my distant relatives who vote at every election and join rallies supporting their political party.
Once again, I revisit the comments asking me to stay out of Dominican issues because I'm some Dominican York–but this time, it hits a little bit differently. I am no less a Dominican because I did not grow up there, and my opinion and views on the island I love do matter. My thoughts on issues back home have merit, especially when I have the power to influence things happening there. Sometimes, our parents attempt to persuade us away from involving ourselves back home, and it's understandable considering how much they had to give up to come here, but it doesn't mean that we can't still make a difference.
In 2020, at the height of protests here in the U.S., the Dominican Republic passed a law prohibiting discrimination in the workplace based on hair; this was a move directly influenced by the international push for inclusivity and diversity that the Black Lives Matter movement initiated. It's proof that foreign influence can impact places like D.R. in a significant way. It's proof that our influence, views, and opinions matter. Since then, things have taken a 360 in D.R. with the mass deportation of Haitians, Dominicans perceived as Haitian, and the many more violations that locals experience based on skin color.
There is police violence all over the world, but when people together with the state enable this sort of violence it’s bigger than police brutality–it’s systemic.
Whether or not Dominicans identify as Black does not change the fact that many live in an apartheid state back home. Some would blame current times, where fascism is again on the rise, but it's something we have the power to dissemble.
You have influence, and your opinion is valid, regardless of whether or not you were born and raised in the Dominican Republic. Your silence on issues happening in the country, on the island we all hold closely, also matters. It has the power to push things one way or another.
When we're silent on the mistreatment of Haitians, whether they've migrated there or haven't been recognized as Dominican by an apparent apartheid state, we enable the violations to continue. However, when we speak up about these violations, we shift the narrative and change things in the right direction. At a time when telling someone you're Dominican holds weight in the conversation, it's even more important to tell them you're also against the mistreatment of Haitians and Dominicans of a darker complexion. It's not about going out on the streets marching once or twice in a decade, but about speaking change into existence and taking action consistently.
It's about speaking up at home, at family functions, y Cuando Tu te Vaya pal resort en Vacaciones. It might not give us something more to be proud of or raise our flag to, but it's a start.
Photo Credit: Kelvin Moquete, Raul de Los Santos, Jose Casado, Richard Cordones, Wells Baum, Aldward Castillo, Ruddy Corporan
