They Called Me Black

They Called Me Black

The verve was gone. She did not recognize herself. She left the salon almost mournfully; while the hairdresser had flat-ironed the ends, the smell of burning, of something organic dying which should not have died, had made her feel a sense of loss.

I couldn’t relate more… And what about this one:

Relaxing your hair is like being in prison. You’re caged in. Your hair rules you. You didn’t go running with Curt today because you don’t want to sweat out this straightness. You’re always battling to make your hair do what it wasn’t meant to do.

I’m currently reading Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, an amazing African author. I’ve been wanting to read it for years and finally got inspired by this movement (I know, guilty). Better late than never. The struggles the Nigerian character faces when she came to America are all too familiar for Black Latin Americans (Afro-Latinos). And for me, a Dominican with African ancestry, some of the stories have a (now hilarious) striking similarity to my experiences — from my interracial relationships to self-identity, to the texture of my hair.

This powerful poem, Me Gritaron Negra (They Called Me Black) by black Peruvian activist, Victoria Santa Cruz, reminded me of Adichie’s book, Americanah. It gave me chills because it’s so real.

The poem tells the story of the struggles many black Latinos face with self-identity, particularly when it comes to learning about and accepting their African ancestry, after having been bullied for it.

During these times of turmoil in our country, I find it necessary to tell uplifting stories of black lives.

Here is a link where you can find organizations accepting donations to support and provide legal justice to blacks in the United States. Please be kind to one another.

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