I was born in the Dominican Republic, raised by historical soil and Caribbean sea. In my homeland, I was blanquita. White. There is no point denying that my skin tone is not what most expect from a Black person. Every time I would go to a hotel back home, they would ask me where I was from, as if my tongue didn't roll the words to the same beat as theirs. Up until 2016, I would go to the hair salon every week and blow-dry my hair until every single curl ceased to exist. My hair came with a warning: “Do not add water, it may add Blackness.”
Occasionally, when I went to the beach and tanned, I would get called trigueña. Mixed. The saltwater would turn my carefully manufactured straight hair into a mane of uncontrollable curls that refused to die despite their burns. I was embarrassed by this failure. A hair texture so powerful that it defied all human law and crowned me. I was taught to see it as an omen. It loomed over my head as a reminder of the lies it helped me craft: Black.
I would talk about plastic surgery with my friends and family. I did not enjoy the idea of aesthetic procedures much. But there was one I could not help but crave. A nose job. I wanted an ‘elegant’ nose, a ‘polished’ nose. My nose was just a tad too wide, a tad too flat. My grandma would remind me every time I saw her. She would gently caress my face, but she would harshly pinch my nose. Moulding me to fit into a role that had always fit a tad too tight.
In TV and film, I did not see people that looked like me. However, I saw fractions of myself spread amongst them. Soft light olive skin with silky blonde hair or rich dark skin with luscious curls. I was not allowed to look at the features that resembled mine. I was privileged with light skin — how dare I seek for anything else? Why would I want to look unprofessional, lazy, unpolished? I had been given all the opportunities and exits in the language: blanquita, trigueña, rubia. My entire society was designed with the denial of blackness in mind. The message was clear, anything but Black.
I did not know my curl pattern until university. My hair had been beaten straight for so long it no longer remembered its natural state. When I moved to Canada, I did not want to live my life attached to a hair salon. In a city like Vancouver, my “Do not add water” warning seemed futile. I started letting my hair be. My hair struggled. It had been doing what was asked of it for so long it didn’t know how to be free.
But my curls started to flourish under my care. I learned how to treat it without breaking it, how to love it, how to protect it from those who denied our conjoint existence.
In Canada, I was no longer a blanquita. I presented myself as this strange hybrid creature that lurked between spaces, not quite white, not quite anything else. People would have the same question in their eyes, what are you? Little did they know I was figuring it out.
I was told all my life I was mixed, but I was only allowed to be white. The Black community at UBC changed me forever. They embraced me. They allowed me to stumble and explore. They opened their arms and called me ‘sister,’ no questions asked. For them, it was not a question of how high my black percentage was. They stared into my eyes and perceived a galaxy of similarities. Our existence, often distanced by white history, was fueled by the same resilience. While the differences were blatantly obvious, they allowed me to occupy the space and embrace the voice I was denied for so long. I am a direct result of colonization. A mixture of impossibilities and cruel realities. An odd one out with the opportunity of privilege.
I used to feel guilty about the privilege my skin tone gave me. But I have learned that, with privilege, you “use it to lose it.” I have been given a voice and a perspective to aid those who cannot reach these spaces. I cannot be ashamed of who I am because that prevents me from becoming more. My Blackness is not to be diminished by those who wish I had kept it trapped. I am allowed to celebrate my lineage and my history because my experience is more valid than your prejudice.
Soy negra, carajo. Ya no permito que me fuercen a ocultarlo.