The Black-Latin Experience




Dominican Republic



Black Denial

Nearly all Dominican women straighten their hair,
which experts say is a direct result of a historical
learned rejection of all things black


xtend.jpg

yara matos holds her hair extensions as a
stylist in the herrera neighborhood prepares
to give her the look of long, straight hair.
(candace barbot/miami herald)


by frances robles
frobles@miamiherald.com


santo domingo -- yara matos sat still while long, shiny locks from china were fastened, bit by bit, to her coarse hair.

Not that matos has anything against her natural curls, even though dominicans call that pelo malo -- bad hair.

But a professional dominican woman just should not have bad hair, she said. "if you're working in a bank, you don't want some barrio-looking hair. Straight hair looks elegant," the bank teller said. "it's not that as a person of color i want to look white. I want to look pretty."

and to many in the dominican republic, to look pretty is to look less black.

Dominican hairdressers are internationally known for the best hair-straightening techniques. Store shelves are lined with rows of skin whiteners, hair relaxers and extensions.

Racial identification here is thorny and complex, defined not so much by skin color but by the texture of your hair, the width of your nose and even the depth of your pocket. The richer, the "whiter." and, experts say, it is fueled by a rejection of anything black.

"i always associated black with ugly. I was too dark and didn't have nice hair," said catherine de la rosa, a dark-skinned dominican-american college student spending a semester here. "with time passing, i see i'm not black. I'm latina.

"at home in new york everyone speaks of color of skin. Here, it's not about skin color. It's culture."

the only country in the americas to be freed from black colonial rule -- neighboring haiti -- the dominican republic still shows signs of racial wounds more than 200 years later. Presidents historically encouraged dominicans to embrace spanish catholic roots rather than african ancestry.

Here, as in much of latin america -- the "one drop rule'' works in reverse: One drop of white blood allows even very dark-skinned people to be considered white.

mardi.jpg

capellan dominquez, center, and anthony rosario, right, join
others as they warm up for carnival in february in the cristo
rey area of santo domingo. (candace barbot/miami herald)



lack of interest

as black intellectuals here try to muster a movement to embrace the nation's african roots, they acknowledge that it has been a mostly fruitless cause. Black pride organizations such as black woman's identity fizzled for lack of widespread interest. There was outcry in the media when the brotherhood of the congos of the holy spirit -- a community with roots in africa -- was declared an oral patrimony of humanity by unesco. "there are many times that i think of just leaving this country because it's too hard," said juan rodríguez acosta, curator of the museum of the dominican man. Acosta, who is black, has pushed for the museum to include controversial exhibits that reflect many dominicans' african background. "but then i think: Well if i don't stay here to change things, how will things ever change?"

a walk down city streets shows a country where blacks and dark-skinned people vastly outnumber whites, and most estimates say that 90 percent of dominicans are black or of mixed race. Yet census figures say only 11 percent of the country's nine million people are black.

To many dominicans, to be black is to be haitian. So dark-skinned dominicans tend to describe themselves as any of the dozen or so racial categories that date back hundreds of years -- indian, burned indian, dirty indian, washed indian, dark indian, cinnamon, moreno or mulatto, but rarely negro.

The dominican republic is not the only nation with so many words to describe skin color. Asked in a 1976 census survey to describe their own complexions, brazilians came up with 136 different terms, including café au lait, sunburned, morena, malaysian woman, singed and "toasted."

"the cuban black was told he was black. The dominican black was told he was indian," said dominican historian celsa albert, who is black. "i am not indian. That color does not exist. People used to tell me, ‘you are not black.' if i am not black, then i guess there are no blacks anywhere, because i have curly hair and dark skin."

patria.jpg

manuel núñez, a dominican author, writes about the
issues of 'black' and 'dominican' as they relate to the
history in his country. (candace barbot/miami herald)


the history

using the word indian to describe dark-skinned people is an attempt to distance dominicans from any african roots, albert and other experts said. She noted that it's not even historically accurate: The country's taino indians were virtually annihilated in the 1500s, shortly after spanish colonizers arrived.

Researchers say the de-emphasizing of race in the dominican republic dates to the 1700s, when the sugar plantation economy collapsed and many slaves were freed and rose up in society.

Later came the rocky history with haiti, which shares the island of hispaniola with the dominican republic. Haiti's slaves revolted against the french and in 1804 established their own nation. In 1822, haitians took over the entire island, ruling the predominantly hispanic dominican republic for 22 years.

To this day, the dominican republic celebrates its independence not from centuries-long colonizer spain, but from haiti.

"the problem is haitians developed a policy of black-centrism and . . . Dominicans don't respond to that," said scholar manuel núñez, who is black. "dominican is not a color of skin, like the haitian."

dictator rafael trujillo, who ruled from 1930 to 1961, strongly promoted anti-haitian sentiments, and is blamed for creating the many racial categories that avoided the use of the word "black."

the practice continued under president joaquín balaguer, who often complained that haitians were "darkening'' the country. In the 1990s, he was blamed for thwarting the presidential aspirations of leading black candidate josé francisco peña gómez by spreading rumors that he was actually haitian.

"under trujillo, being black was the worst thing you could be," said afro-dominican poet blas jiménez. "now we are dominican, because we are not haitian. We are something, because we are not that."

jiménez remembers when he got his first passport, the clerk labeled him "indian." he protested to the director of the agency.

"i remember the man saying, ‘if he wants to be black, let him be black!' '' jiménez said.

Resentment toward anything haitian continues, as an estimated one million haitians live in the dominican republic, most working in the sugar and construction industries. Mass deportations often mistakenly include black dominicans, and haitians have been periodically lynched in mob violence. The government has been trying to deny citizenship and public education to the dominican-born children of illegal haitian migrants.

When migrant-rights activist sonia pierre won the prestigious robert f. Kennedy human rights award in 2006, the government responded by trying to revoke her citizenship, saying she is actually haitian.

"there's tremendous resistance to blackness -- black is something bad," said black feminist sergia galván. ‘‘black is associated with dark, illegal, ugly, clandestine things. There is a prototype of beauty here and a lot of social pressure. There are schools where braids and natural hair are prohibited."

galván and a loosely knit group of women have protested european canons of beauty, once going so far as to rally outside a beauty pageant. She and other experts say it is now more common to see darker-skinned women in the contests -- but they never win.

hair.jpg

mariana ramirez smiles as she sits in daisy
gran salon in santo domingo, dominican
republic. (candace barbot/miami herald)

aisle.jpg

product promoter margarita munoz, right, tidies up the
shelf displaying her company's hair-straightening products
in a santo domingo market. (candace barbot/miami herald)


culture pull

several women said the cultural rejection of african looking hair is so strong that people often shout insults at women with natural curls.

"i cannot take the bus because people pull my hair and stick combs in it," said wavy haired performance artist xiomara fortuna. "they ask me if i just got out of prison. People just don't want that image to be seen."

the hours spent on hair extensions and painful chemical straightening treatments are actually an expression of nationalism, said ginetta candelario, who studies the complexities of dominican race and beauty at smith college in massachusetts. And to some of the women who relax their hair, it's simply a way to have soft manageable hair in the dominican republic's stifling humidity.

"it's not self-hate," candelario said. "going through that is to love yourself a lot. That's someone saying, ‘i am going to take care of me.' it's nationalist, it's affirmative and celebrating self."

money, education, class -- and of course straight hair -- can make dark-skinned dominicans be perceived as more "white," she said. Many black dominicans here say they never knew they were black -- until they visited the united states.

"during the trujillo regime, people who were dark skinned were rejected, so they created their own mechanism to fight it," said ramona hernández, director of the dominican studies institute at city college in new york. "when you ask, ‘what are you?' they don't give you the answer you want . . . Saying we don't want to deal with our blackness is simply what you want to hear."

hernández, who has olive-toned skin and a long mane of hair she blows out straight, acknowledges she would "never, never, never'' go to a university meeting with her natural curls.

"that's a woman trying to look cute; i'm a sociologist," she said.

Asked if a black dominican woman can be considered beautiful in her country, hernández leapt to her feet.

"you should see how they come in here with their big asses!'' she said, shuffling across her office with her arms extended behind her back, simulating an enormous rear-end. "they come in here thinking they are all that, and i think, 'doesn't she know she's not really pretty?' "

maria elena polanca is a black woman with the striking good looks. She said most dominicans look at her with curiosity, as if a black woman being beautiful were something strange.

She spends her days promoting a hair straightener at la sirena, a santo domingo department store that features an astonishing array of hair straightening products.

"look, we have bad hair, bad. Nobody says 'curly.' it's bad," she said. "you can't go out like that. People will say, 'look at that nest! Someone light a match!' ''

street.jpg

angela martinez, 12, left, entertains friend estefany diaz, 10,
as estefany's sister ariela does her hair in the paraiso de dios
neighborhood west of santo domingo, a scene that plays out
on the streets throughout much of the dominican republic.
(candace barbot/miami herald)


'it was hurtful'

purdue university professor dawn stinchcomb, who is african american, said that when she came here in 1999 to study african influences in literature, people insulted her in the street.

Waiters refused to serve her. People wouldn't help stinchcomb with her research, saying if she wanted to study africans, she'd have to go to haiti.

"i had people on the streets . . . Yell at me to get out of the sun because i was already black enough," she said. "it was hurtful. . . . I was raised in the south and thought i could handle any racial comment. I never before experienced anything like i did in the dominican republic.

"i don't have a problem when people who don't look like me say hurtful things. But when it's people who look just like me?"


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<font size="3">"there's tremendous resistance to blackness -- black is something bad," said black feminist sergia galván. ‘‘black is associated with dark, illegal, ugly, clandestine things. There is a prototype of beauty here and a lot of social pressure. There are schools where braids and natural hair are prohibited."</font size>


<font size="3">asked if a black dominican woman can be considered beautiful in her country, hernández leapt to her feet.

"you should see how they come in here with their big asses!'' she said, shuffling across her office with her arms extended behind her back, simulating an enormous rear-end. "they come in here thinking they are all that, and i think, 'doesn't she know she's not really pretty?' "
</font size>


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In Naming What’s Racist, Junot Díaz Has to Re-Assert
That Yes, He’s Dominican​


Junot Díaz recently spoke out against the Dominican Republic’s
court ruling ("Sentencia") that could strip citizenship from
thousands of Haitian immigrants. Díaz, calls the ruling racist;
some well-known politicians and intellectuals on the island
say Díaz is a “fake and overrated pseudo intellectual” who
“should learn better to speak Spanish before coming to this
country to talk nonsense.”



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Junot Díaz recently spoke out against the Dominican Republic’s court ruling that could strip citizenship from thousands of Haitian immigrants. Díaz, who was born in the DR, called the ruling racist.

His outspoken criticism has drawn disapproval from some well-known politicians and intellectuals on the island. In an email that was later published by Latino Rebels, Executive Director for the Dominican Presidency’s International Commission on Science and Technology José Santana called Díaz a “fake and overrated pseudo intellectual” who “should learn better to speak Spanish before coming to this country to talk nonsense.”

Díaz responded with a message on his Facebook page this week:

"All these attacks are bullshit attempts to distract from the real crime — the sentencia itself which has been condemned widely. All of us who are believers need to keep fighting against the sentencia and what it represents and we need to keep organizing and we need to show those clowns in power in the DR that there is another Dominican tradition —based on social justice and human dignity and a true respect for the awesome contributions that our immigrants make everywhere.

The Huffington Post notes that human rights groups estimate <SPAN style="BACKGROUND-COLOR: #ffff00">the ruling could strip more than 200,000 people — mostly Haitians — of citizenship</SPAN>, a figure the Dominican government disputes.



SOURCE: COLORLINES


SEE ALSO: A Crisis of Nationality: Dominicans of Haitian Descent


 
For Blacks in Cuba, the Revolution Hasn’t Begun

source: The New York Times

For Blacks in Cuba, the Revolution Hasn’t Begun

Havana

CHANGE is the latest news to come out of Cuba, though for Afro-Cubans like myself, this is more dream than reality. Over the last decade, scores of ridiculous prohibitions for Cubans living on the island have been eliminated, among them sleeping at a hotel, buying a cellphone, selling a house or car and traveling abroad. These gestures have been celebrated as signs of openness and reform, though they are really nothing more than efforts to make life more normal. And the reality is that in Cuba, your experience of these changes depends on your skin color.

The private sector in Cuba now enjoys a certain degree of economic liberation, but blacks are not well positioned to take advantage of it. We inherited more than three centuries of slavery during the Spanish colonial era. Racial exclusion continued after Cuba became independent in 1902, and a half century of revolution since 1959 has been unable to overcome it.

In the early 1990s, after the cold war ended, Fidel Castro embarked on economic reforms that his brother and successor, Raúl, continues to pursue. Cuba had lost its greatest benefactor, the Soviet Union, and plunged into a deep recession that came to be known as the “Special Period.” There were frequent blackouts. Public transportation hardly functioned. Food was scarce. To stem unrest, the government ordered the economy split into two sectors: one for private businesses and foreign-oriented enterprises, which were essentially permitted to trade in United States dollars, and the other, the continuation of the old socialist order, built on government jobs that pay an average of $20 a month.

It’s true that Cubans still have a strong safety net: most do not pay rent, and education and health care are free. But the economic divergence created two contrasting realities that persist today. The first is that of white Cubans, who have leveraged their resources to enter the new market-driven economy and reap the benefits of a supposedly more open socialism. The other reality is that of the black plurality, which witnessed the demise of the socialist utopia from the island’s least comfortable quarters.

Most remittances from abroad — mainly the Miami area, the nerve center of the mostly white exile community — go to white Cubans. They tend to live in more upscale houses, which can easily be converted into restaurants or bed-and-breakfasts — the most common kind of private business in Cuba. Black Cubans have less property and money, and also have to contend with pervasive racism. Not long ago it was common for hotel managers, for example, to hire only white staff members, so as not to offend the supposed sensibilities of their European clientele.

That type of blatant racism has become less socially acceptable, but blacks are still woefully underrepresented in tourism — probably the economy’s most lucrative sector — and are far less likely than whites to own their own businesses. Raúl Castro has recognized the persistence of racism and has been successful in some areas (there are more black teachers and representatives in the National Assembly), but much remains to be done to address the structural inequality and racial prejudice that continue to exclude Afro-Cubans from the benefits of liberalization.

Racism in Cuba has been concealed and reinforced in part because it isn’t talked about. The government hasn’t allowed racial prejudice to be debated or confronted politically or culturally, often pretending instead as though it didn’t exist. Before 1990, black Cubans suffered a paralysis of economic mobility while, paradoxically, the government decreed the end of racism in speeches and publications. To question the extent of racial progress was tantamount to a counterrevolutionary act. This made it almost impossible to point out the obvious: racism is alive and well.

If the 1960s, the first decade after the revolution, signified opportunity for all, the decades that followed demonstrated that not everyone was able to have access to and benefit from those opportunities. It’s true that the 1980s produced a generation of black professionals, like doctors and teachers, but these gains were diminished in the 1990s as blacks were excluded from lucrative sectors like hospitality. Now in the 21st century, it has become all too apparent that the black population is underrepresented at universities and in spheres of economic and political power, and overrepresented in the underground economy, in the criminal sphere and in marginal neighborhoods.

Raúl Castro has announced that he will step down from the presidency in 2018. It is my hope that by then, the antiracist movement in Cuba will have grown, both legally and logistically, so that it might bring about solutions that have for so long been promised, and awaited, by black Cubans.

An important first step would be to finally get an accurate official count of Afro-Cubans. The black population in Cuba is far larger than the spurious numbers of the most recent censuses. The number of blacks on the street undermines, in the most obvious way, the numerical fraud that puts us at less than one-fifth of the population. Many people forget that in Cuba, a drop of white blood can — if only on paper — make a mestizo, or white person, out of someone who in social reality falls into neither of those categories. Here, the nuances governing skin color are a tragicomedy that hides longstanding racial conflicts.

The end of the Castros’ rule will mean an end to an era in Cuban politics. It is unrealistic to hope for a black president, given the insufficient racial consciousness on the island. But by the time Raúl Castro leaves office, Cuba will be a very different place. We can only hope that women, blacks and young people will be able to help guide the nation toward greater equality of opportunity and the achievement of full citizenship for Cubans of all colors.
________________________________________

Roberto Zurbano is the editor and publisher of the Casa de las Américas publishing house. This essay was translated by Kristina Cordero from the Spanish.

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Black and Latino

What does it mean to be black and Latino in the U.S.? Featuring interviews with Latino actors Laz Alonso (Avatar, Jumping the Broom), Tatyana Ali (Fresh Prince of Bel Air), Gina Torres (Suits, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys) and Judy Reyes (Scrubs), musicians Christina Milian ("Dip it Low") and Kat DeLuna ("Whine Up"), and journalist Soledad O'Brien (CNN), among many others.

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One-on-One With Afro-Cubans: What It Means to Be Black in Cuba


As U.S. relations with Cuba warm up, we turn to Harvard professor Henry Louis
Gates Jr.’s exploration of blackness on the Caribbean island and how the revolution’s
anti-racism stance failed to meet its promise.

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Residents of Cuba Black in Latin America screenshot/PBS



Editor’s note: This story first ran in July 2015, just as the U.S. Embassy was about to reopen in Havana. We’re featuring it again in light of Fidel Castro’s death. Here, The Root provides some insight and perspective into the lives of Afro-Cubans who suffer discrimination and economic distress, even in the midst of the Cuban revolution that Fidel Castro declared put an end to racism. Harvard professor and The Root Chairman Henry Louis Gates Jr. hosted the PBS documentary Black in Latin America in 2011. This excerpt is from a chapter in the companion book called “The Next Cuban Revolution.”


I needed to talk to real Cubans and to find out what they thought about race and racism in their society. Soon enough, I was chatting away with our drivers, two men who were part of our film crew named Rafael and Yoxander. They were proud to be Cuban and happy to discuss race with me. I started by asking Rafael, who has a complexion like coffee, what color he is.

“I am mixed race,” he replied. “I’m simply Cuban. It is a mixture of all the races.”

“Sure, I know that,” I replied. “But what does it say on your ID card?”

“White,” he said.

That was odd. The man isn’t white. And he couldn’t tell me why his ID card says he is. This sent our conversation in a different direction. Rafael might want to be just Cuban, and his ID card might officially categorize him as white. But what about unofficial Cuba? How do people think of themselves when they stop walking politically correct lines? I asked the two men to tell me about the people around us on the streets. They are Cuban, yes, but what else are they? I soon learned there are still categories of blackness within cubanidad.

[What is cubanidad? In the twenties, through music and culture, Cuba’s government and elite population stopped rejecting everything Afro-Cuban and favoring everything European. They began celebrating Cuba’s racially mixed, or mestizo, heritage. This cultural-identity movement was called cubanidad, a blend of white and black, to make brown.]

That person over there? “Moreno.” That one over there? “Mulato.” “What about me?” I asked.
 “Negro,” Rafael answered. That’s all right with me. I’m happy to be black. But I then took the opportunity to ask them why there weren’t more professors like me at the universities—and why the affluent neighborhoods didn’t have more black residents.


“I think perhaps it is because white people like to study more,” Yoxander said, surprising me with his frankness. “They keep on going and try to improve their life, day after day.”

As you can imagine, I felt some strong emotions in that moment. But I wasn’t talking to Yoxander to judge him.

“Why don’t black people have the same values?” I asked.

“Perhaps it’s because of their genes, their own mentality, the way they see life, the way they are,” he answered. “Or perhaps, because of the context in which they grew up, they are happy the way they are and don’t want anything else.”

I asked him if he believes there is racial discrimination in Cuba.

“Not really,” he said, shaking his head, “not on a grand scale. We all grew up together—white, mestizo, black, mulatto. We were all educated to the same level.”

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And there are black people with a low level of education and white people with a low level of education,” Rafael piped in. “The problem is that black people sometimes have complexes. They discriminate against themselves. They call each other black. But they have the same rights.”


Okay, I thought. The word on the street, among average Cubans, is that discrimination doesn’t exist. But I wanted to get another perspective. So I ended my discussions about race with Rafael and Yoxander and decided to jump to the top of the income ladder. As in much of the world, successful blacks in Cuba are often athletes, not lawyers or doctors. I called Omar Linares, a famous baseball player—and an Afro-Cuban. I was curious how he feels. He invited me to a baseball game on a Sunday morning. For several minutes, we just chatted about baseball. Most Cubans love the sport, as do I. Then we turned to the matter at hand. I wanted to know why athletics are such a singular avenue for success for black Cubans.


“Black people here like to practice a lot of sport,” Linares told me amiably.


“Why do you think there are more baseball players, proportionately, than black lawyers or doctors?” I asked.

“There’s a tendency for black people to practice sports,” he said, patiently. He was listening to my questions, but they weren’t really engaging him. He told me he had never experienced discrimination in Cuba, and he assured me that ordinary Cubans don’t either. The revolution got rid of racism, he said.


“Why didn’t you come to the US?” I asked. “You could have been like Big Papi and made so much money.”

“Because I was born here in Cuba,” he replied, “and the revolution gave me the opportunity to study and play. I owe my success to Cuba.”

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After I said goodbye to Linares, I must confess that I was baffled. I saw segregation everywhere around me. But Cubans didn’t seem to blame racism. I saw a wide gap between rich and poor, and so many poor seemed to have brown faces. But the black Cubans I had interviewed so far insisted that each individual’s success (or lack thereof) was his or her own responsibility.

I told Tomás Fernández Robaina about my conversations with Rafael Muñoz Portela, Yoxander Oritz Matos, and Omar Linares. It seemed like cubanidad supersedes race, I told him, and that even Afro-Cubans believe there is no racism.

“I class myself as an ordinary Cuban,” he told me. “But speaking as a black Cuban, I also know, deep down, that the first thing people see is that I’m black, not that I’m Cuban. The police always remind me of that first and foremost.”

“So you believe Afro-Cubans do face racism?” I asked.

“All Cubans, whether they are aware of it or not, have been a victim of racism,” he responded, without skipping a beat. “Prejudice and humiliation make some people reject the fact that they are black. Here in Cuba, there are many different ways of referring to the racial category of black—there are forty-four different ways, in fact.”

Forty-four categories of blackness! Considering that no one wanted to talk about it, that number was a lot bigger than I expected.

“What happens is that those with the lightest skin, who are almost white, straighten their hair so they can pass for white and become successful,” he went on. “They just want to enjoy the same opportunities as white people.”


This had the painful ring of truth. But I felt I still needed to learn more. I caught up in a black barbershop with another journalist, Tato Quiñones, who had lived in Cuba in 1989, when the Soviet Union collapsed. The Soviets were Cuba’s biggest trading partner at that time, and when their empire fell apart, six billion dollars disappeared from Cuba’s economy. The island descended into chaos. Quiñones covered the whole story.

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I was looking forward to our talk with particular urgency because we were going to meet in a barbershop. In my haste to keep on schedule over the past two weeks, I hadn’t had a chance to get my hair trimmed! Quiñones and I shook hands heartily and got comfortably settled in some grand, but fraying, old-school barber chairs, like the cars in Havana, refugees from the fifties. The hot towel around my neck felt lavishly wonderful, though the barbershop was in a poor section of town. Then I asked Quiñones how the Soviet Union’s fall affected Cuba—and what it meant for Afro-Cubans. Quiñones told me that Cuba’s economic landscape had been unequal for whites and blacks even while the Soviet Union was strong. And that was twenty years after the revolution.


“The majority of blacks still lived in the poorest neighborhoods,” he explained. “And there was a remarkable disparity in terms of academic achievement. The percentage of black people in high-ranking positions, in political and governmental organizations, had no correlation with the percentage of the population that was black. The government took some measures to remedy this. But some, in my opinion, were naïve. There were new formations of social classes, but in these—as had always been the case in Cuba—the highest classes were made up of white families, and at the bottom of the pyramid were the black families.”

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When the Soviet Union collapsed, Cuba lost over 80 percent of its overseas trade. The country’s gross domestic product was slashed in half. Cuban industry and agriculture essentially ceased to function. Malnutrition and famine spread quickly, and most Cubans found themselves in desperate straits. Many had to rely on support from Cuban exiles in the United States—and the Cuban community abroad is mostly white, even if it is getting more diverse all the time. Still, most blacks in Cuba had no lifeline, so their situation became markedly worse. Race relations became bitter.


“I went to the USA at the end of the nineties,” Quiñones told me, “and I found out that, you know, 97 percent of Cubans living there considered themselves white. And so the hundreds or thousands of millions of dollars, some say, sent to Cuba every year ends up in the hands of those who consider themselves white.” Many of the Cubans in Miami wouldn’t think of themselves as black or as mulattoes.

Why, if there was no more racism in Cuba, would multiethnic Cubans who achieved success choose to whiten their own identity? That didn’t sound like cubanidad to me.

“Thirty years after the triumph of the revolution, there were still some racist germs in Cuba,” Quiñones explained, “and when the Soviet Union went away, they multiplied at an astounding rate. It was incredible. It was as if Cuba’s immune system had failed, and this disease took hold of society.”

Incredible, indeed. I asked Quiñones if he experienced racism. He didn’t hesitate.

“Yes, of course I’ve experienced racism,” he said. “There is racial discrimination in Cuba. It gets worse every day—more apparent and more shameless.”

The race divide is exacerbated, he told me, by Cuba’s monetary policy. Since 1994, following the fall of the Berlin Wall, the country has used a dual currency system. Today, Cubans are paid in pesos, but tourists use Cuban convertible pesos, also known as CUCs, which were introduced a few years ago. The difference? CUCs are worth about twenty-five times more than pesos. By using two currency systems, Quiñones explained, Cuba has rendered many of its well-intentioned reforms meaningless. After all, why should a Cuban go to school to become a doctor and get paid the equivalent of twenty dollars a month when a waiter serving tourists can make that amount in one day?

I found this notion deeply troubling. I remembered Graciela Chailloux’s gleaming eyes as she told me about Castro’s education initiative. I remembered Omar Linares’s sincere expression of gratitude to his nation for providing him with an education and a chance to succeed. I understood immediately how such a currency system upended their conventional wisdom, and I wanted to know more about how it affected Afro-Cubans.

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Quiñones helped me out by taking me to visit Roberto Zurbano, a writer and critic. Zurbano was happy to give me a few minutes in the restaurant in my hotel, introducing me to Cuban beer. But he didn’t mince words—the two-currency system in Cuba has been a disaster for poor blacks.


I told him, “I’ve been in many places like Cuba, and as a black American, I always look for black people, always. But here, I see very few black people on airplanes, in the hotels, or in restaurants. Why?”

“Unfortunately, that’s the way it is,” Zurbano replied. “Maybe they clean the rooms, or they work in the kitchen or as performers. They are likely to be paid in pesos. In Cuba, there are just few black people in the strong economic sectors. Why? Because prejudice never went away. Prejudice never disappeared. It was simply concealed under the table. And silence allowed all the problems to grow, under the table.”

By “silence,” I took Zurbano to mean silence from the government, from the elites, and from black people, who were fearful of persecution. And I thought about his analysis as I sipped my beer. Silence is rarely a good response to injustice—and I feared that Afro-Cubans themselves had become silent. Of course, I don’t accept that black people are lazy and that their poverty is their own fault. I think that is a racist justification of the effects of a history of racism. How is that different from saying blacks are poor because they’re naturally inferior to whites? If you really think blacks are equal to whites and as capable as they are, don’t you have to question what keeps them in poverty?

____________________________________

Excerpted from Black in Latin America by Henry Louis Gates Jr. Copyright © 2011. Reprinted with permission from the publisher, New York University Press.

Henry Louis Gates Jr. is the Alphonse Fletcher University Professor and founding director of the Hutchins Center for African and African American Research at Harvard University. He is also chairman of The Root. Follow him on Twitter and Facebook.



SOURCE: http://www.theroot.com/articles/his...fro_cubans_what_it_means_to_be_black_in_cuba/



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