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There's
No Racism Here?
A
Black
Woman in the Dominican Republic
By Kiini Ibura Salaam
When I first returned home from studying
abroad, everyone wanted to know, "How was the Dominican
Republic?" I was reluctant to respond. Masking the truth
behind "fine's" and "good's," I skirted my
real feelings. "Did you like it?" is such a loaded
question that it can't be answered with a simple "yes"
or "no." For a long time, I refused to talk about the
Dominican Republic at all. I wanted to spend neither the time
nor the energy to reach into my soul and give honest answers to
the inquisitions - I think I'm ready now.
Sharing the island with Haiti, the Dominican
Republic floats in the Caribbean Sea to the lower right of Cuba
and upper left of Puerto Rico. The constant sunshine liberates
its inhabitants from the oppressive layers and heavy coats
winter requires. The strange sizes of the trees and flowers are
astounding. My host-family frequently introduced me to
unfamiliar fruits of varying colors and shapes.
As a
family-oriented society, the Dominican Republic relies on the
family unit as its center. For me, the greatest thing about the
Dominican Republic is the night life. Dominicans are serious
about partying. The beautiful lyrics, strong rhythms, and complex
dance steps of merengue and salsa trapped me from the beginning.
It was easy to fall in love with Dominican culture.
But the warm weather and intoxicating music
aren't the things that stilled my tongue when asked to speak
about the Dominican Republic. What silenced me is the
double-edged sword of racism and sexism that unmercifully
pricked me throughout my journey.
Ironically, one of the phrases
I heard repeated most often in the Dominican Republic is
"No hay racismo aquí." (There's no racism here).
Dominicans do not believe racism exists in their country. This
lack of consciousness made the racism an unusually heavy burden
to bear. When trying to discuss my feelings and problems, I
constantly met with resistance. Instead of receiving support and
understanding, I was bombarded with negations that the
discrimination I was experiencing was real.
To the credit of the Dominican people, I must
comment that there are two factors that intensified the racism I
suffered. Firstly, the city of Santiago, where I lived, has a
significant number of white or lighter skinned people. These
people are, by virtue of institutionalized racism, classism, and
other factors, richer and "better educated" than the
average Dominican.
Although the common Dominican I encountered
on the street often reacted to me in a similar manner as the
"upper-class" Dominicans, I cannot definitively say
that the racist climate that permeates Santiago is
representative of the racial climate in every Dominican city.
The second factor that influenced my experiences is my outer
appearance. I do not perm my hair and often dress in
African-influenced styles. Because of this, the racism I
experience in any country, including the United States, is often
more intense than that experienced by other African Americans.
Just like African Americans, Dominicans come
in all hues and shades. They are a many-toned people, formed by
the familiar mix of European "conqueror" and African
"slave" with the extra ingredient of the island's
original indigenous people thrown in.
Unlike the situation in
the United States where color dictates culture, in Dominican
society, everyone shares the same culture regardless of color.
"White" Dominicans eat rice and beans, dance the
merengue and kiss upon meeting, just as "black"
Dominicans do. Except for the differences due to racist
manifestation of class (through which the rich just happen to be
white and the poor just happen to be black), there are no
inherent differences in the lifestyles of "white" and
"black" Dominicans.
In one Dominican family, one child
can be considered black and the other white. Though siblings,
their different skin colors make them two different races.
Because of this unique structure, I was forced to live and deal
with prejudices in new ways. I could not avoid problems by
living with a "black" family. There were no black
families. I had to live within a community that rejected me.
Dominican racism is at once foreign and
familiar. It contains some of the same patterns of self-hatred
found in the black communities of the United States. Imagine my
surprise when I heard the familiar phrases "bad hair"
and "bettering the race" transformed by the Spanish
tongue.
Just as the English language connotes the word 'white'
with purity and goodness, Dominican Spanish makes similar
connections. One host mother described her study-abroad son in
one breath of linked words: "so nice, so sweet, and so
white." Her verbal connection of these words exposed her
mental relationship to them. For her the words 'nice,' 'sweet,'
and 'white' are interchangeable. Through these similarities I
realized that in many ways all oppressed people have to fight
the same patterns of self-hatred and confusion as we do in the
United States.
The uniqueness of Dominican racism lies in
its subtleties; it is not a loud, obvious creature. It has no
gloating, self-satisfied white face. The fervent denial of its
existence made it hard for me to recognize its familiar traps.
Although I was aware that I was being ignored throughout my
trip, I did not always understand why. It seemed that the
Dominican students selected to guide us through the university
were magnetized by the white students, but they had little time
and patience for us black students.
I was often confused, angry
and depressed. I spent an entire month and a half watching men
constantly beg my two white friends for dances and reluctantly
ask my two black friends (with permed hair) for dances before I
realized no one was asking me to dance. I spent many nights in a
dark corner of a discotheque surrounded by men who found my body
appealing enough to comment on in the streets, but my hair
appalling enough to ignore me in the discos. I began to see a
trend in their behavior and I recognized this trend as
racialized sexism.
Racialized sexism is that peculiar brand of
discrimination that breeds on black women (and other women of
color) while somehow missing black men and white women
completely.
Becoming aware of its existence explained why all
the host mothers constantly told me how beautiful I could look
if only I would fix (read: perm) my hair. Racialized sexism
explained why my friend Vincent, also a possessor of natural
hair, never had to defend his choice to wear his hair "that
way." It explained why I thought constantly having
different parts of my body grabbed in the street was a common
experience until I discussed it with some of the white female
students. They were shocked. Only their flaxen hair had been
touched, never their bodies.
This blend of racism and sexism was the
roughest thing to handle. I was equipped to deal with the
racism, but not the mixture of the two. After some time, we
black students became accustomed to the horrified glances and
gasps we received when we referred to ourselves as black. One
host-mother in particular would stop us saying, "No, no,
no, don't call yourself black, you're Indian."
Dominicans
have created a myriad of names - morena (brown), india (indian),
blanca oscura (dark white), trigueño (wheat colored) - to avoid
referring to themselves as black. Nothing prepared us for a
weekend field trip to the country where our weekend hosts got to
pick the students they wanted to put up for the night. The first
picked were the blondes. Standing there desolate and alone at
the end were the blacks.
While I had a cordial, comfortable
relationship with my host family, on many occasions I felt they
might have related to me better were I white. When I would
eagerly show them photographs of my friends from weekend trips,
their eyes would go straight through my black friends'
unsuspecting smiling faces and examine the blondes in the
background. "Who's she?" they would ask, "Is she
part of your group?"
Existing in a situation which I felt to be a
daily negation of my being deeply affected me. I am a steel
trap; I don't cry, and I didn't cry once while I was there. Now
that I have returned, I sprout tears at the smallest
infractions. Within the safety of my home, I am finally letting
my wounds flow. Friends say I am quieter now and a bit more
serious. The experience has certainly sobered me, not to the
point of paralysis, but I walk the streets a bit more wary.
I
find myself still reacting to the groping hands I encountered on
Dominican streets. I have to force myself to pass men without
flinching. My eyes are glued to their swinging hands and at
their slightest movement in my direction, I am ready to react.
I don't want to recount every terrible
experience I encountered in the Dominican Republic. I don't want
to talk about the time I was refused entry into a club or the
times our host-mothers had negative reactions to our
black-Dominican and Haitian friends, but I can't open my mouth,
my thoughts, and my soul about the Dominican Republic without
these things flooding out.
I must emphasize that my experience was
unique. Many sisters who traveled to the Dominican Republic
enjoyed the trip and are ready to go back. Most of them didn't
have such extreme experiences as I and, even with those
extremes, I have no regrets.
With my pain and tears, I have
brought back joy and laughter. I never cease to amaze myself
upon hearing Spanish fall from my throat, my eyes will never
stop glowing when they remember the lush beauty of the entire
country, nor will my heart ever stop lifting at the memory of
spending a night in a Dominican night club dancing in perfect
sync with my friend Vincent watching the smiles of my friends
spin around me.
* * *
Essay
writing is a very natural form of expression to me. I could
write an essay on anything and make it relevant to the human
experience. The essays I conceive on my own examine social
difficulties I grapple with – sexual harassment and
international racism. Luckily, I've been invited to write essays
that explore more intimate elements of me as well: my father, my
brothers, being single.
Kiini Ibura Salaam © 1994 • Eyeball Literary Magazine, 2000 * * * * *
updated 29 September 2007 |
