How my Dominican heritage shaped my life

Being Afro-Caribbean is a unique experience that not many can comment on.

We are not widely recognized in the media, except during Carnival parades (most notably the Brooklyn one). Most people don’t really understand us because of our lack of representation.

We are usually grouped together with African-Americans when it’s incorrect. Our parents and cultures are very similar but there are differences.

Whenever someone asks me my ethnicity, I usually just say Caribbean to help them understand because most people have never heard of where my parents are from. But once they hear the Caribbean, they want to impress me with their Jamaican accent when they just say “mon” every other word and claim they’ve listened to Bob Marley as if that has anything to do with me.

The majority of my family is from Dominica (not Dominican Republic, don’t get it twisted) which is a tiny island near St. Lucia that has a population of a mere 72,003 and is known for being the “Nature Island of the Caribbean” because of it’s beautiful, rich, forests, natural sulfur lakes, and 365 rivers (one for every day of the year!). My parents brag that if Columbus, “the damn stinkin’ liya”, came back to life, Dominica would be the only island in the Caribbean that he would recognize.

My parents came here to get a better education and to make a better life for their future children. They left behind the rocky beaches and endless summers, but did not forget where they came from.

My parents also never let me forget why they truly came to America. I didn’t have the usual American upbringing. I didn’t know what a Shakira was until sixth grade because my parents only listened to throwback stations. I didn’t have any videogames until I was in seventh grade and I didn’t have a phone until I was a junior in high school. Instead of sneaking texts under my covers, I read the entire children’s section of my library and then the young adult one. When I did get my phone, my mom made me put it in her room at 8 o’clock so I wouldn’t be up texting boys in the wee hours of the night. I wasn’t allowed to stay out past 9 on weekends (during the week, FORGET IT). I had a strict bedtime of 8:30 during the week. We were only allowed to watch TV for 30 minutes a day. I started doing my own laundry by six and started cooking by seven. By the time I was 10, I knew how to cook, clean, and take care of a household.

My parents tried to assimilate Dominican culture into my American life as much as possible. I lived the lifestyle of being at parties filled with loud, drunk people who could still dance perfectly and hold their Heineken in their hand without a spill. I was used to family gatherings where I seemed to gain a new “cousin” each time and somebody who claimed to have seen me once when I popped out the womb. Every West Indian child knows the struggle of when your parents tell you that they’re leaving but then they see another friend and it’s a whole other hour until you actually step out the house.  We learned early how to sleep in noise because, during our bedtimes, relatives were still yelling loudly, deep in debate about philosophy, politics, or history. I even sometimes melt into a Dominican accent because I have grown up around it so much. My parents never tried to change themselves for America and I admire them because of it.

Food is a whole other thing. I was brought up in a world that sounds foreign and disgusting to most but is just another Sunday breakfast for me. I had delicacies like cow, chicken (only once), and pig’s feet, salfish, ackee, bakes (fried biscuits), curry goat, roti, calloo (a soup of blended leaves), palow (chicken and rice cooked and seasoned together).

A traditional West Indian dish from Trinidad called goat roti

I did suffer some embarrassment from my background when I would bring brof (a brothy soup with fish or smoked pig’s feet) and people wouldn’t talk to me or when my mom would speak and kids would giggle because she sounded funny but I never shied away from my culture.

One of the two flags that can be found in my room

Although my parents can be annoying and overbearing, they taught me to be proud, strong, and independent. They taught me to only keep friends who want me to succeed. They taught me that not everybody has my best interests at heart. They taught me how to clean clothes by hand and how to bleach things with the sun. They taught me everything I know about cooking, seasoning, and baking. They taught me how to deliver a strong argument. They taught me to never take bullshit from anybody and to know my worth. I laugh about the times where I was annoyed listening to my parents’ lessons because they have given me an upper hand. Going to college, nobody had to teach me how to do anything for myself because I already knew how to do it.

Merci beaucoup, Mommy and Daddy for your sacrifices and going through so much just so that I could be successful. Leaving everything behind for a land that has snow and Donald Trump certainly must’ve not been easy but you did for me and I love you all so much for that. All the lessons that I have learned from you are priceless and I cannot imagine life without them.