Identity Clash

I know this post is reeeaalllyyy long, but there was so much I had to say (didn't get to say all that I wanted to), but please, please, please read the whole thing!...

Some days I sit around and think about strictly dedicating my blog to race, identity, and colorism posts. Then, I realize that #1, most of you would no longer read my blog and #2, I would probably limit my experience and create a misleading idea about the Dominican Republic. However, when I step back into reality, I am forced to acknowledge that this most certainly has been my experience and these topics have constructed my reality to be full of defensiveness, frustration, crying, and hopelessness. I don’t know if I’m more discouraged by the Americans in this country or Dominicans.

You would think I’m lying if I told you that I sat on a bus with 5 other Peace Corps Volunteers, 4 of whom I’ve had personal interactions with, and they did not recognize me. My hair was the same and I even had one of those crazy-looking oversized backpacks that only Peace Volunteers wear. For 2.5  hours, I sat with my teeth clenched trying my hardest not to say something as I heard them repeat numerous times, “The other volunteer is not here. We would know if there was another American on this bus.” I guess it was wrong for me to assume that these college- graduated, well-traveled volunteers would know that not all Americans are white nor do we all look like “them.” Or maybe I can tell you about the time when our new Peace Corps Country Director called another black girl “Quamisha” (Although she is 2 feet taller and 3 shades darker than I am). Oh wait, I can’t forget when I had an appointment with my Peace Corps Medical Officer and the entire time she had another black girl’s file instead of mine. Don’t stop reading yet, I’m just now getting started! I want to tell you about the time when I was in the office for a few meetings and different Peace Corps staff members genuinely called me the name of 4 other black volunteers within 30 minutes. Okay, okay! I’ll move on! But first I must tell you that some volunteers have even introduced me to their friends with the name of course… of another back volunteer! I forgot to mention that there are only 5 black, female volunteers in country out of over 100. You would think it’d be easy to get our names correct! Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe all black people do look alike. *Sigh* It’s just really hard when I’m surrounded by people that don’t identify with my challenges.

I am serving in a country of people who look just like me: whose hair would kink if it weren’t processed; whose skin would get darker if they weren’t afraid of the sun; whose roots would lead them back to Africa if they didn’t deny them. Yet, here I am frustrated with Dominicans who I called “My people.” Here I am, angry. Mad. Irritated. Confused.  Just over a week ago, an African American friend of mine got arrested because he was “Haitian dark.” He was too black to be Dominican and spoke Spanish too well to be American. The fact that he had his American passport card with him and is only in the DR because he is an intern with Major League Baseball did not mean a thing! He was forced to walk in silence with handcuffs tightly closed around his wrists, while his skin color did the talking. Barely a week after this incident, me and 3 other African Americans were denied entrance into a nightclub. Being the radicals that we are, we stood there until they “explained” why, and we even got live footage of it in order to show that it was simply a case of discrimination. Some people do not understand why we were so mad. After all, it’s only a nightclub. Right? Wrong! It’s an insult to our identity! It’s like spitting in our faces and telling us to get out of line. It’s a blatant demonstration that we are lesser than others and unworthy of equality and basic rights.

We were actually having a good time, smh

I have shared this story with a couple of volunteers and they pretty much dismissed it. They refuse to believe that something like this could happen, even if they saw it before their own eyes. I recall December 30, 2013 when I was also denied entrance into a nightclub. I was with a group of white volunteers and the security office asked ME (and ONLY ME) for my “cedula (Dominican ID).” I explained that I was not Dominican, which meant that I did not own one. A few of these volunteers told me that I was being dramatic and that he did not card me because I was black. Me being who I am, I argued my point until everyone shut up. I find myself doing that A LOT!- shutting people up. I don’t care if everyone gets tired of it because I understand that staying silent is the same as compliance. Until there is an “Amanda” who everyone mistakenly calls “Laura” when she walks into an office or until one of my unmelanized, blonde haired co-volunteers has a door slammed in her face by a black man, they will never see my reality and how it clashes with their beliefs.

Being the token black girl is fun for a few hours, until you pay for it later 

I am not writing this post as some livid black girl who just wants to complain. Am I angry? Hell yes! I’m angry as hell! For the first time in my life, I cried about first hand racial injustice and discrimination. They weren’t just tears of sadness; they were drops of frustration, drops of pain, and drizzles of apology. Apologies to my ancestors that although they fought with all their might, our people still aren’t walking in their freedom. Apologies that crouch down to their knees screaming “SSOOOORRRRYYYY!” because although there is a façade that covers up the blemishes of inequalities and the context of the circumstance has changed, we still live in bondage and not much has changed. It is 2014 and racism and discrimination still exist. For some reason American history makes the past seem so far away, which creates a disconnect between the past and the present. It was 59 years ago when Claudette Colvin was arrested in Alabama for resisting unconstitutional bus segregation. Just 51 years ago Martin Luther King, Jr. and other demonstrators took part in the March on Washington, demanding freedom! People, that was yesterday! This just happened! Today is the tomorrow they prayed, cried, marched, and died for, but are we even free? We are as free as the constrictions of our mentality and the barricades surrounding our hearts allow us to be. Hence, some of us are not free at all! “We” neither understand nor tolerate what we aren’t or we condemn what we are. Freedom is not given; we must intentionally and confidently take it!

I realize that Dominicans may hate and disrespect me because they hate the me within them. I represent a mirror that replicates their reflection and my presence is a loud reminder of who they are and where they come from. They see power and are afraid to embody it, strength and are afraid to walk in it, blackness and are afraid to embrace it; and history, but they are afraid to claim it. Historically, I understand the root of this negativity and I know I cannot change it. However, I will not walk away with my head down as if nothing happened. I will stand boldly in front of every door closed in my face, waiting; I will walk fiercely into every restaurant when people stop eating to look at my hair, smiling; I will continue lecturing people on the African Diaspora and identity, hoping. Hoping that one day this world will prove itself to be less hopeless than I’ve experienced it to be. I try to be understanding, empathetic, and culturally sensitive. I really do! Yet, I will never sit there silently. Speechless. I must say something. If not, who will?