La Huerfana :: The Orphan

About a month ago, I was at lunch at Guapos eating a chicken quesadilla, humming to a Marco Antonio Solis ballad playing in the background. I was in my element; good food, good conversation and good music. All of that enjoyment was brought to a screeching halt, however, with a simple question from my lunch date. It was like those scenes in the movies when some life-altering news is broken to the protagonist, she drops her glass of wine and the music stops as the camera does a close-up of her startled facial expression.

His question made me instantly uncomfortable. Like when you're watching a movie with your parents and an unexpected sex scene seems to be going on for years, when it's only about 30 seconds long.

"Do you feel like Latin America is yours? Do you claim it?" he asked.
For some time now, anytime anyone has asked me where I am from, I've stuck my chest out, put my chin up and proudly proclaimed "The Bronx" as if it were the most important statement of identity I would ever make. In a similar manner when, I've gotten the weirdly typical "What are you?" I've answered "Black."

I wouldn't have it any other way.

A conversation I had last night with a friend who has recently returned from studying abroad in the Dominican Republic reminded me why. She had a wonderful time and has the pictures to prove it. She said she met great people, went out and learned so much. But, she also spoke of the racism she experienced and how the African history in Latin America was not only ignored, it was denied.

I was reminded of going to a club in Puerto Rico during Spring break and waiting a significant amount of time for the bartender to take and fill my order meanwhile he rushed to serve appletinis to some fair-skinned Latinas.

I was reminded of a want ad in a Panamanian newspaper for a receptionist some time ago. The ad said preference would be given to women with light-colored hair and blue eyes.

I was reminded of sitting in the salon chair when my Dominican hairdresser tried to convince me that I should not call myself "Black" because I was different all the while punctuating her sentences by pinning rollers to my head.

Like many burned-out students, I've spent some time during this break watching TV. At my house, after 6:30, the television in the den is locked to Univision. My family and I watch the news and stay tuned for the addictive "novelas" (soap operas).

While I love them for their drama, I've always taken note that all of the characters have been played by white Latinas. The news that comes on beforehand, has no black reporters.

When watching Sabado Gigante, my mom and I play a game where we count how many black guests Don Francisco has on each week.

When I was asked the question, I took some time to think about my answer, not because I was trying to find the perfect words, but because I had not thought about my relationship with Latin America in a very long time. I had gotten comfortable being Panamanian only when I felt I wasn't going to be questioned about it.

So, no I do not feel that Latin America is mine. I think Latin America has orphaned Black Latinos. Left them out in the cold for them to be adopted by another,supposedly more "fitting" identity. Not in the way that Mariah Carey feels alienated by both blacks and whites, as she told Essence in her "tragic mulatto" article last year. But, in a way that somehow seems almost more visceral. It seems as if we have been erased. As if our birth certificates have been altered and we've been left to find other parents.