I am Afro-Latina—a word that wasn’t really used when I was a kid. In fact, I never felt like I belonged to any group because most labels didn’t completely make sense for me. Can I be Latina but not fluent in Spanish? Can I be Black but not African American? And what the hell does Afro-Latina mean anyway?
It means I’m a Latina with significant African ancestry due to the African diaspora and colonization of the New World. Translation: European white men conquered islands like Quisqueya/Ay-ti (which is now the Dominican Republic and Haiti), brought over enslaved Africans, and slaughtered the native Taino people. They also had sex with all the women. Okay, let’s be real—they raped all the women. Mixing the races. And what do you get when white colonizers and African and Indigenous women have children? A lineage of people who look like me. I have a medium brown complexion, curly/kinky hair, full lips, and a big ass. I am racially Black and ethnically Latina, specifically Dominican.
I explain this because chances are you don’t really know what Afro-Latina means, and that’s okay because it’s not your fault. Okay, maybe it is a little, but not entirely, because Hollywood, the media, and some Latinos themselves are all brainwashed to think that whiter is better. And because of this, Latinos are mostly portrayed by people with fair to olive skin, long wavy hair, and thin noses. But I’m here to tell you: NOT ALL LATINAS LOOK LIKE JLO (or Salma or Sofia). Some of us look like Zoe Saldaña or Gina Torres—or me.
I Was in College When I Found Out I Was Black
Let me repeat that: I WAS IN COLLEGE WHEN I FOUND OUT I WAS BLACK.
Now, you must be thinking… “But Grasie, did you not own a mirror?”
Yes, I owned a mirror. I mean, I knew what I looked like, but growing up, I was told I was Dominican, or Spanish, or Hispanic, or morena (a Spanish term for brown or darker-skinned Latinos) then later Latina, but never as Black. Black meant you were African American, and “we” (Latinos, and more specifically Dominicans) generally did not want to be lumped into that category.
Why? Because white supremacy is real, alive, and well. And white supremacy produces people of color who want to be white—or as close to white as possible. People who have been taught that lighter/whiter skin means you are wealthy, educated, and upper class, while darker skin means you are poor, uneducated, and lower class. So, of course, colorism exists, especially in Latino communities. ALL Latino communities.
But because my family is Dominican and that’s my experience and history, I’ll just focus on us.
Let’s start with Trujillo, shall we?
Trujillo & the Whitewashing of a Black Nation
Rafael Trujillo was a vicious dictator who ruled the Dominican Republic from 1930 until his assassination in 1961. The following excerpt from Trujillo: The Death of the Dictator is a sobering example of the self-hate and racism that exists in our community:
In 1937, without a qualm, El Jefe (Trujillo) had ordered the slaughter of some twenty thousand Black Haitians. Killing, he had decided, was the easiest, cheapest, and most efficient method of removing the Blacks who squatted on Dominican territory or toiled as sugar cane cutters in its large plantations. A Negrophobe, Trujillo disguised the fact that he had Negro blood in his own veins. Even the dusky tinge to his complexion was lightened with makeup. He ignored the fact that most Dominicans were, like himself, of mixed blood or Negro, and declared his nation officially white.
There is so much to unpack in those five sentences, but let’s start with the fact that Trujillo declared a country full of Black and mixed people “officially white.”
What do you think it would feel like to be a Black or Brown person in a country where your leader has deemed everyone white?
I would imagine it felt a bit like I’ve felt throughout my life when people (some family members, some “friends,” some strangers) have bombarded me with microaggressions.
Internalized Colorism & Not So Microaggressions
I love the beach. Growing up in NYC, a beach trip was a rarity. We only had about two months of beach weather in the summer, and getting to the beach was a real pain in the ass (at least an hour on the subway carrying a beach umbrella, a cooler full of food, a blanket, towels, etc.). So whenever my family actually made it to the sands of Brighton Beach, it was a big deal. I loved building sand castles and swimming in, what I now know, is the very filthy Atlantic Ocean (A log of human feces once floated by me as I swam in the ocean. I moved away from it and STAYED in the water).
I was around eight years old when I remember first feeling shame about the color of my skin. My maternal grandmother was very fair-skinned with wavy “good” hair, while my mom and I are brown with curly/kinky hair—or pelo malo ("bad hair," as many Latinos call it), though we both had relaxers at the time. I was building an epic sandcastle, sitting in the sun, when my grandmother yelled at me to join my mom under the beach umbrella.
She said, “¡Te estás poniendo prieta!”
Translation: You’re getting dark!
I still remember the tone of her voice—a hint of disgust at the idea of my skin darkening under the sun. Listen, I know this sounds harsh, but it was what she was taught. She was a product of her own socialization.
The irony? My grandmother, Grecia, had two children with a very dark-skinned Dominican man—my grandfather, Anibal. She was disowned from her white Dominican family because of it.
And yet, she still told me to stay out of the sun.
So, knowing this about Grecia’s love life, I have to assume she wasn’t racist per se, but rather, she was trying to protect me by discouraging me from getting darker. Protecting me from the harsh reality that darker-skinned people are treated worse in America and around the world.
Speaking of which, let’s talk about my high school experience. I went to an all-girls Catholic high school in midtown Manhattan from my sophomore year until graduation. A school that was composed of about 97% girls of color with the majority of them being Dominican and Puerto Rican. Wonderful! You’re probably thinking, it must have been so nice to be around “your people” in high school, a time when most Black and POC kids often face bullying for being the only non-white person in their class. Wellllll, yes, it was mostly great being surrounded by other girls like me. But, teenagers are terrible human beings and will always find a way to torture their peers.
Her name was…actually let’s call her “Shanice”. Shanice was a light-skinned Puerto Rican girl who was a little rough around the edges. She wasn’t the worst girl in school, we had some tough ones, but she had an edge. A bunch of us uniformed clad ladies were on the subway after-school talking about our weekend plans. It’s the mid-90s, a simpler time before bouncers actually checked ID, so our weekend plans usually consisted of us hitting a Latin nightclub and dancing our asses off until the wee hours of the morning. So, we were talking about that. Where we were going to go, what we would wear and who we might meet.
I started talking about my makeup and how I got a new lipstick from MAC that I was going to wear (a rusty shade of maroon that was popular at the time, with brown lipliner, of course) when Shanice said, but what are you gonna use to hide that “n*gger nose?” (A hard “er” was used.) Then she laughed.
The three other girls joined in. I vividly remember how I felt at that moment. Shocked and confused. I too joined in on the laughter, while crying on the inside. I wanted to stand up for myself, but didn’t have the courage to tell her to “shut the f*ck up and stop being a racist bitch!” I was disappointed that none of the other girls stood up for me but instead laughed along. I knew “n*gger” was a bad word but didn’t know the true history of it and all its implications at the time. There I was a Dominican girl with a group of my people being discriminated against. It still stings. And it gave a terrible complex about my nose. From then on, I hated my nose. I thought it was too big, too round and too Black.
Spanish y Pena
Now that I’ve shared some childhood traumas, let’s talk about my shame around not being fluent in Spanish. Something a lot of first and second generation Latinos struggle with since our parents were taught we’d be better off just learning English and not having a Spanish accent. I mean, I’m not a total No Sabo Kid, I speak Spanish, just not fluently. I would say I speak conversationally, like I understand about 90% and speak about 60%. I speak Spanglish, if you will. Note how I just spent three sentences explaining my Spanish fluency. Insecure much?
I also resent the unwritten rule that you are somehow less Latino if you don’t speak Spanish. The second I proclaim myself as Dominican-American, the next question is “so you speak Spanish?” Do we do this to any other ethnic group? Do you meet an Italian-American and expect them to speak Italian? And if they don’t, do you see them as less Italian? But honestly, it hurts more when it comes from my own people. If I had a dime for every time I met a fellow Dominican who gave me the stank eye when they heard I wasn’t fluent, I’d have at least two dollars. The shame is real.
And I know what you’re thinking…”Grasie, just learn more Spanish!” I’m trying but if you’re not immersed in it, you lose it. If you are immersed in it, you soar. Every time I visit the Dominican Republic, my Spanish excels and I’m the most fluent I’ve been since I studied Spanish in Madrid in college. YES, I MINORED IN SPANISH AND I’M STILL NOT COMPLETELY FLUENT, LEAVE ME ALONE. This is clearly something I still grapple with but I no longer believe the notion that my lack of fluency makes me any less Latina.
Though let’s examine why I wasn’t taught to speak Spanish in the first place. My mom is fluent and for the first 12 years of my life I was raised by her, my aunt who is also bi-lingual and my grandma who barely spoke English. I was in a home with three women all fluent in Spanish and yet I didn’t learn shit? Okay, that’s not entirely true, like I mentioned, I understand about 90% of it because my grandmother only spoke to me in Spanish (and the occasional broken English) but I would answer her in English. And no one encouraged or better yet made me speak Spanish. Why? Well, as my mom likes to tell me now, it was because “it was a different time.”
It was the 80s and Dominicans were new immigrants trying to assimilate. Trying to be more American/white in order to succeed. My mom was speaking mostly English by the time she had me, so I get it. I totally understand the reasoning for keeping my native tongue to English, I just wish it was different. Especially these days, the same white people who shame Spanish speakers to “speak English!” brag to their friends about sending their children to Spanish immersion schools. As you may have noticed, this is a real hot topic for me. One that I’m sure I’ll grapple with until I’m truly fluent in Spanish.
Am I Latina Enough?
Despite my Spanish speaking insecurity, I’m definitely more confident in who I am and I no longer feel insecure about explaining my background. It happened slowly over time then suddenly all at once. I learned to love myself and be proud of where I come from. I simply started appreciating my individuality instead of wishing I was something I wasn’t. I say simply but of course it wasn’t simple. It came from a realization that my history and my culture are beautiful despite the ugly parts. That though my African, European and Indigenous DNA is modern-day proof of a dehumanizing slave trade and colonization, it’s that unique combo that makes me who I am. That makes Dominican people a beautiful array of complexions, hair textures and physical features. I am PROUD of these things now.
I love my brown skin that gets dark and deep red when I sunbathe. I love my naturally kinky hair that can be worn curly, straight or in braids. I love my round nose, my big ass and my thick thighs. These features tell the story of my ancestors and I feel their strength and power in my veins.
So now, as an adult, I love to educate others on the history of my people. I’m proud to tell their story. Some might say I shouldn’t have to, but I don’t mind educating, if someone is willing to learn.
The Future of Representation
So has anything really changed? Yes and no. No, because microaggressions still happen on a weekly, if not daily, basis. No, because racism and nuanced racism still exists and probably will until the end of time. No, because there are countless people still confused by my race and ethnicity and who still have no idea what Afro-Latina means. But YES! Because I’ve changed. My perspective and understanding of myself and my people has changed. And YES! Because representation IS happening (though sometimes at a snail’s pace) and happening everywhere. Hollywood, sports, art and music all have a more diverse, inclusive representation of the array of Latinos that exists. The Latino experience is not a monolith and more and more people are starting to recognize that. And this does not come without its growing pains.
Take Emilia Peréz, for example. Actually, I’m gonna leave that alone. Take In The Heights, for example, the Jon Chu film based on Lin Manuel Miranda’s Broadway show. Let me start by saying I f*cking love Lin Manuel Miranda and I loved this film.
It was the first time in my forty-something years on this planet that I saw a film with so much representation of my people. Dominican flags everywhere, the array of characters found in Washington Heights, piragua carts, ensalada de papa, a perfected roasted pernil, open fire-hydrants, these are the familiar sights of my upbringing that I rarely or ever see depicted on screen. But I would be remiss if I didn’t also mention the lack of Afro-Latine representation for major roles. And while Leslie Grace, one of the film’s leads, is Afro-Latina, complaints were that she wasn’t “dark enough.” You see how nuanced this stuff is?
It’s not enough to have an Afro-Latina in one of the lead roles, when in real life, that community of Washington Heights is majorly Black. Dark-skinned, Black, Afro-Latinos from Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico. So maybe it’s not enough to have darker-skinned characters only represented in the background actors and dancers. But damn, I love this movie and LMM for creating the story in the first place. But being, maybe a shade darker than Leslie, I felt seen, whereas my darker-skinned cousins may have not.
I would also like to mention that as an Afro-Latina of Dominican descent I know a lot of my culture and my people but that doesn’t mean I’m an expert at Latindad. There are countless traditions, cultures and specificities about other Latin communities that I know nothing about. For example, the crunchy, tasty layer that forms at the bottom of pots, when you cook rice that I’ve called “concón” my whole life, has a bunch of different names. In Puerto Rico it’s called “pegao”, in Ecuador “cucayo” and “cocolón”, in Haiti “raspa”, “raspado” and “graten” and in Columbia “la pega!” That’s a lot of different names for the same thing. But that’s five, different Latin American countries so the variety makes sense.
The point is I’m open and want to learn more and that’s all I ask of others. If you don’t know what Afro-Latino means then look it up, educate yourself and be willing to learn and share. I love learning about other Latino cultures and even more about my own and I would hope that others would have that same curiosity. So am I Latina enough? Of course I am. Will I still have times when I don’t feel Latina enough? Of course I will! But each day I grow more confident in who I am and that’s all I can really hope for.
And my wish for others? Stop letting Hollywood and the media dictate your perception of what a Latino/a/e/x person looks like. We look like EVERYONE—literally. We are Black, white, Brown, Asian and Indigenous. We have straight, wavy, curly and kinky hair. We have brown, black, blue and green eyes. We are the most diverse group of people in the world and how absolutely beautiful is that?
YES, I AM LATINA ENOUGH.
